


Number Nine

by Tempestad



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Acceptance, Albino Vulpes, Artistic Liberties, Awfully Young Courier, Awfully Young Vulpes, Burke has deals with the NCR, Burke is as Evil as his karma suggests, But Not Between The Main Couple, But the Female Lone Wanderer loves him nonetheless, Child Soldiers, Coming of Age, Courier and Vulpes share interests, Courier is NOT the Female Lone Wanderer, Courier is physically weak as fuck, DLC content, Drama, Everyone Needs A Hug, Evil Female Lone Wanderer, F/F, F/M, Fallout: Van Buren Content, Family Issues, Faulty Memory, Geek Courier, Gen, Holding Hands, Latin, Like it is so slow you should sit down for a while, Lost/Dead Siblings, M/M, Military Science Fiction, No Oversexualized Romance, Partial amnesia, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance based on affection instead of immediate physical attraction, Slavery, Slight Wild Wasteland, Slow Burn, Spanish, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Survivor Guilt, Teen Romance, The Courier will NOT be raped by anybody OK? This is not THAT KIND of fic, The Legion Is Full Of Men-Children, The Pip-Boy has more features, Tribal Family Pack Concept, Tribal Reminiscent Vulpes, Vulpes gets his Karma cleaned eventually, Vulpes is still Vulpes so he starts as Very Evil Karma for all his deeds, WARNING: FALLOUT LORE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2020-10-20 06:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 230,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tempestad/pseuds/Tempestad
Summary: Courier Six of the Mojave Express is declared “The Last Best Hope of Humanity"... although some might beg to disagree.Vulpes thinks she's trouble. And he needs the work done without unnecessary obstacles in his way.The Courier thinks Vulpes is weird... but she needs a friend more close her age than the overprotective grumpies she hangs with.Vulpes is definitely NOT volunteering... but that doesn't seem to deter her. In fact, she's so geeky that she's contagious... and Vulpes have always been a curious soul.However, as the line between duty and real interest starts blurring, the Frumentarius' own ideals and loyalties will be put at test when the Courier's group embraces him as the ninth companion.Meanwhile, Caesar awaits... as well as the rest of the Mojave.(Summary subject to change on future releases - Consensual relationship even if there are Non-Con elements pertaining to other characters on the fic - Relationship Tags are exclusively for romantic pairings, not rape or casual sex)PLAYLIST: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ayEQCTK0G6LYP21Tl3DgG?si=ZFWnfDZWRQei1rYXgt6QJg





	1. Libertango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story that has politics and Lore. It explores many unanswered questions in the Fallout Universe that, for me, are important to get into the context for the characters I'm writing about.  
This story mixes Fallout: New Vegas and Fallout 3 events without incurring in obviating Canon Timeline. So, purists out there, don't worry. I also mention things that happened in Fallout 1, 2, and what may 4 have in store.  
The main relationship is a Slow Burn, and it starts sexless. This story is about two people from very different worlds meeting halfway, not about a torrid romance spiced with lots of sex scenes, okay? It's young and somewhat innocent love.  
If this is your cup of tea, go ahead ;)

* * *

_"__Viva Las Vegas 2025!!” _Cropped against a background of nightly darkness purposefully bad Photoshopped in a copypaste _vintage_ style that reminded dangerously close of the first moon-landing propaganda back in 1969 when the United States of America had shared all over the world their (alleged) triumph over the soviets along with their famous catch-phrase that, later, became a motto: _“That's one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind”_, the now bicentenary structure of the Lucky 38 imposed itself above the rest of the buildings in all its splendor surrounded by the classical neon lights that defined the hedonistic spirit that permeated and defined lifestyle on New Vegas.

Once the biggest city of the now-deceased State of Nevada, now the only beacon of light amidst a sea of Wasteland scorching sands after the post-nuclear incident back on October 23rd of 2077 when Humankind had failed itself, New Vegas somehow had remained mostly intact with its spirit unswayed… along with its old vices.

The Gomorrah and The Tops, immediate neighbors of the shining yet silent Lucky 38, were the ruling business in there if one doesn’t count the refined and outrageously expensive decrepitude of the Ultra-Luxe for the most demanding clientele… or the consolation prize meant only for the less fortunate gambler with very few caps to lose that was The Atomic Wrangler on the Freeside, beyond the tight cybernetic security of the Strip and its reserved yet almost omnipresent owner: Mr. House.

New Vegas, Babylon made flesh after reemerging from its ashes, flapping wings made of fire like the providential Phoenix; the new City of Sin, was always way noisier after sunset.

Cross-armed, scanning the surroundings with a bored expression that the faded brown(ish) fedora hid magnificently playing with the shadows of the boisterous, greasy and ill-perfumed night, a shady owner of shadiest piercing, magnetic blue eyes maintained his apparently lazy pose reclined on one of the many shabby advertisement posts that sow in asphalt soil like bad weed while, in truth, he felt anything but lazy.

He felt like a predator crouching behind tall grass, eyes fixated on the next prey to fall between his claws.

But he also felt like a canary out of his gilded cage, so alien in this element that both fascinated and disgusted him to the core of his inner being that it made both his wrists itch.

His scheduled date was already late. And if there was something in this world that irritated him greatly, besides ignorance, stupidity and corruption surrounding his persona like a sea of excrements… that was _unpunctuality._

Repressing with cold efficiency the burning temptation of systematically starting to scratch his wrists, a compulsive mania that he mostly disguised under boiled shirt cuffs or leather wristbands, according to the circumstances of his cover, pale long fingers pertaining to a condition of partial melanin absence twitched slightly inside the worn-out pockets of his jacket.

Given the (currently, improbable) case that this contact would prove fruitless… he would have, with great pleasure, skinned alive the damned cockroach that, with their _cursed unpunctuality,_ was leaving him at the mercy of all the disgusting pimps and their nitty whores scanning the night in search of objectives to “alleviate” their pockets of a handful of caps.

In the ten extra minutes he had been waiting, he had already counted, minimum, seven prostitutes giving him the business showing out shamelessly their shaggy, dehydrated, beaten up bodies riddled with countless venereal and who knows what else. He was already fed up with the countless crazed, panties-lacking women dancing and screaming obscenities with absent eyes, high on their overdosed injections of Med-X, tripping on their worn high heels while making a disgrace of themselves.

Young, abused and malnourished; old, toothless with disgusting bare hanging breasts… It didn’t matter when it came to raffling customers, announcing the cheapest rate for a blowjob in a dark corner.

But it didn’t end there the Horror Circus of this Neo Babylon, oh no… because the catalog of available holes for sticking dicks was anything but lacking.

It was simply frightening.

He was getting already sick in the stomach thinking of the many _suave_ men with fake Spanish accent that had come to him wiggling their tiny moustaches while trying to persuade him to drop some caps in exchange of whatever his mind could come up with… and the rotting ghoul prostitutes with cheap blonde wigs showing their infected… corroded… eroded flesh while attempting to look seductive… and the sexbots… and the farmers selling out their dog’s butts… or their brahmin’s…

Not to count the WC stalls with _dickholes_ on their walls… or the multiple rates the arranged _gangbangs_ charged, of course…

_Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption and filth everywhere._ – he thought, suppressing a grimace.

The world was sick. Sick and utterly rotten.

The same rotten world ruled by the same rotten society that still hung on the Old World ideals. Ideals that had gotten them to this point of no return.

Profligates… Degenerates… all of them.

They belonged to a cross, blood drenching barren irradiated lands and flesh and bones drying out in the scorching sun while he would watch in silence as their world would crumble once again amidst fire and ashes. He would make sure of it.

And he _never_ failed to deliver.

However, the very instant he brusquely turned his head wielding a fierce warning scowl at the next cocksucker begging for his wallet’s attention, his eyes flickered towards an approaching figure a few paces behind the whore.

Generous shapely legs trapped inside unbearable high heels and lycra stockings ascended at voluminous hips, narrow waist and tender bust to end in a freckled, doe-eyed Afro-American face.

This was his contact. A woman.

Impassive as he stood tall and disgruntled before this tainted beauty, thinking briefly again about the increasing need he had to scratch his wrists like a mangy dog until he would draw blood, he immediately changed his mental registry to match the vocabulary and language of the Profligates.

“You’re late.”

* * *

“Hey, are you sure you do not want to sit down a little?”

“I’m fine…”

“No, you are not. You have been running in and out the Freeside all day doing chores and helping random people with their ridiculous issues and I still have to see you gather your breath and drink some water.”

“I’m not thirsty…”

“You are dehydrated. Your pupils and your skin speak for themselves.”

“He’s a doctor, you should heed his advice.”

“Yeah, ‘n I’ve just whut ye need: a pretty lil’ bottle of whiskey dat has yer name ‘n mine painted all over it, kid.”

“Uh… I don’t think Doc-Man meant that Boss may hydrate herself by such means, Miss Cassidy…”

“Raul is right. Besides, alcohol suppresses your body’s antidiuretic hormone that sends fluid back into your body while simultaneously acting as a diuretic, causing water to be flushed out of your system much more rapidly than normal.”

“’N English, Doc.”

“Very well, let’s put it simply: alcohol has water, yes, but given its composition makes you sweat and… makes you need to go to the bathroom pretty fast. In the long way, it would do more ill than good to her.”

“And you’re just not giving her alcohol. Not in front of me. She’s a fucking child, for fuck’s sake!”

“N’body was askin’ yer opinion, Red Beret Man.”

“You’re slurring again, redhead. Wouldn’t seek advice from you right now for the life of me. Go ahead and drown yourself in fucking whiskey, that’s the best thing you damn right know how to do, isn’t it?”

“Don’t get yer panties in a twist, f’cker. ‘M still very capable of makin’ ye eat me boot… or rather me knickers for all I care. Might make ye loose dat stick-up-yer-ass attitude.”

“I think we all should lower down our voices. I believe she has a headache.”

“Agreed, Veronica. But why won’t she sit down awhile and drink some water?”

**“Awww, you poor dearie. Rexie here is not feeling much better, are you, cutie?”**

“_Arooo?_”

“Between an ill cyberdog, a damaged eyebot, and a stubborn, trouble-picking teenager, I am already feeling that I have signed for parenting instead of companionship work. Reach for your canteen. Now. We are not moving an inch from here until you drink something.”

“My canteen is empty…”

“And why didn’t you say something earlier?!”

“Owww… don’t yell at me, please… The water lasted until this afternoon… and we’re running low on caps, so…”

“So you deemed more feasible to push your luck in the middle of the Freeside where there is not a single place in the night hour where they sell water?! You could have told me! We are returning to the Old Mormon Fort and I am injecting you with saline so you can recover properly! We can enter the Strip tomorrow!”

A sudden stomp over the destroyed concrete that paved the last steps of the Freeside before entering the golden prize of the Strip resounded as if it had been a gunshot. And six silhouettes took on a halt, each one of them fairly taller and older than the one who had caused such a sudden turmoil. Not to count the two non-anthropomorphic, cybernetic ones that were carried by the broadest and tallest of all between her bluish muscled arms as if carrying two sleeping babies.

“I’m not letting that bastard get away with this…” – the smaller silhouette with the steadiest voice of all replied, her voice overwhelmed with feeling, passion… and bile. Her right hand going back to that spot hidden amidst her short, disheveled black hair – “I have gone too far to stand before this entrance to chicken out now…”

The second tallest of the other silhouettes, a man well into his thirties, adjusted his glasses before attempting reason with measured voice.

“It has nothing to do with chicken out.” – he said while putting both his hands over the trembling shoulders of the smaller girl – “This is not a whim out of nowhere but your health we are talking about. Heading into the wolf’s den weakened is not a proof of courage but quite the contrary. Don’t you see that you are acting again without using your head but rather that heart of yours that has gotten you into trouble more than once?”

“Gotta agree with Doc ‘n dis one, kid.” – if reeking of booze, one of the oldest of the eight companions, a redhead woman who looked like the most faithful image of a cowgirl out of the not-so-far West, spoke with sudden clear mind despite her intoxicating habits – “Ye’ve got nothin’ to prove, not to me at least. ‘N ye will enjoy shootin’ dat bastard’s face off feelin’ well ‘n rested, not like dis.”

**“Dearie, you need to take your medicine and rest a little to feel better.”** – the huge Nightkin behind sunglasses and a dainty picture hat advised sweetly… or, at least, as sweetly as the growling baritone voice of a supermutant could muster – **“You have played all day with the other children, now it’s bedtime.”**

“Or, you can keep this charade up, Boss, until you start throwing up to the point you fall unconscious again like when you got that rad poisoning back on Black Mountain and didn’t inform anyone until the _supermutante loca **(1)**_ with the wig and her pet robot got far away enough.” – the sarcastic reply from the only ghoul in the group was met with knowing nods – “Then, you don’t worry, the decrepit old man here can keep dealing with not just your body weight, but also all the junk you carry with you by a thousand miles more. Really.”

Feeling the weight of the gazes of the four seniors (and not necessarily the wisest) of her companions, she bit down her lip in frustration until she, the moment her eyes were burning with hot tears, lost consistency on her leg’s muscles and gave up.

“Easy now.” – kneeling down at her eyes' height, the soft voice of the oddest member of the Brotherhood of Steel ever spoke in soothing tones – “You’re going to be fine, okay?” – and then, she turned to the silent man with the red beret who wore dark glasses even in darkness – “Lily has her hands full with Rex and ED-E, so… Boone, if you would be so kind…”

Not giving her a chance to finish the sentence, the man knelt silently before the small girl and waited until she gave up and accepted being carried on piggyback, both arms circling his muscled neck and her face buried behind his shaved nape.

She trusted him. All of them in truth. Since the more or less three years that she had been wandering the Wasteland delivering packages she had felt… always alone. They may not have been friends quite yet… but they were the closest thing she had gotten so far. Age differences and all.

Age differences that made her feel like a child every time they chose to play big bros, grandpa and granny on her and her stubbornness. And she didn’t need a brother; she already had one… or used to have one a long time ago.

So long ago…

Funny she could recall his face in all detail but not his or even her own name. Thanks to a bastard who not had only stolen her life from her damaged brain by means of two bullets aimed at the center of her memory, but also stolen the only memento she had still managed to retain from him. That’d been an issue she pretended to fix, soon…

But not right now, feeling like crap, wobbling limbs, throat dry and raspy as sandpaper and eyes playing funny to even stay focused.

So both went ahead, Boone and her, back to the Old Mormon Fort, without issuing a word while the other five, cyberdog and eyebot comfily resting on supermutant’s safe arms, followed suit.

It had been a long day. For all of them.

* * *

A couple days had passed without much novelty besides plucking out several Degenerate bastards’ pockets on the Poker table.

He was rather efficient at guessing bluffs and counting down cards, it only took what in the first place he was quite good at: patience, strategy, a bit of math and paying great attention to detail.

He didn’t pride himself in being good at gambling against a bunch of Profligates filled with pitiful addictions, willing to throw themselves into poverty and disgrace for the thrill of debatable monetary earnings they, otherwise, would later spend on alcohol and hookers… but it still felt satisfactory to wear them under the providential table, unable as he currently was to release pent-up frustration the way he liked most: lashing them to a cross.

It was nearly sundown and he still had to hear from Alerio the new reports on the NCR Embassy and Military Police Headquarters present on the Strip or, as the hypocrites would say, the _“Free Economic Zone of New Vegas”_, the main reason of why he was still trapped in this horrid cesspool polluted with vice and sin.

The main reason why, instead of acting on his instincts by means of biting down the fingers, one by one, of the daring manicured hands caressing his shoulders, he had plastered a fake smug smile as if showing off in front of the rest of the gamblers the way this Profligate whore behind his back was getting all affectionate and sluttish with him just because he was winning.

He hated when Degenerate females felt this free to touch him without his previous consent just because they thought that was the right way to get his attention. It was the Profligates’ way nonetheless: a woman approaches, touches you casually while getting closer and closer as the inane conversation she strikes on you goes on, and you have to act like you’re interested, flattered even.

The game usually involved buying a nice meal or, at least, a few rounds of alcohol to said woman… if she proved - during his undercover interrogation disguised as idle, incredibly charming, chatter - to be a valuable asset regarding information on the NCR or the Three Families.

And if that wasn’t enough to get the lady’s lips loose… he usually resorted to seduction. Women tended to talk way too much after sex with a kind stranger who feigned to be so unbelievable interested in their whereabouts that they, if momentarily, would feel that he _really_ cared about them like a devoted lover… or a boyfriend would do. It wasn’t that difficult to make a woman feel cherished giving the kind of men, Profligates or not, they were used to deal with on a daily basis. And a young, smooth-talking, pale, blue-eyed fair-haired man like him was a far too tempting treat to resist.

To his great shame, he had learned that much from observing and chatting with the male prostitutes on the Gomorrah. Disgraceful and pitiful as they were, being often even younger than him, they usually tended to open up more to other men than the female strippers.

From them, he had learned that older women were usually more chatty and blind to the fact that a man as young as he was wouldn’t have the slightest interest in their wasted bodies or their pitiful sexual displays if it wasn’t to obtain something in exchange.

_"Even if they are paying for it, they still think that they're this gorgeous broad they used to be thirty years ago."_ \- one of the manwhores had told him once - _"Good money on it if they take a fancy on you." _\- he had added, probably thinking that the inquisitive young fair-haired man was weighing his chances at getting a job on their field. And their advice on such matters had proven to be right.

The old lusty crows always left him sated and flattered, undulating their disgusting Degenerate carcass of a body in front of him as they left his door; too full of themselves to even notice the intense stare of disdain he would sport after the issue was over, wishing looks alone would kill, adding them to his extensive list of futures _belong-in-a-cross_.

Then, there were the men.

Oh, it hadn’t been any news to him that his wavy short hair and his blessed twenty-year-old features and tall, slender body tended to capture more than he would care to admit the lechery from many old men.

Sometimes he had used that advantage over them as well by leading them, flashing charming smiles and seemly shy glances, playing the candid ephebe part, but making himself unattainable enough so they won’t get the wrong ideas. One thing was having to deal with _disgusting_ Profligate women and their base needs… _that_, he could palate to a certain extent… and another entirely different thing was to allow some _vomitive_ animal of a man to get his paws on him. It was already bad enough when they slipped their sweaty hands under the table so they could grab a handful of his thigh and he had to contain the murderous instincts that came with the contact, screaming in his mind to cut them in half and feed them on their own entrails.

And here, in New Vegas, the apparent lack of respect for any personal space tended to get people to new levels of disinhibition and lechery far worse than anything he had experienced in all the other territories he had stayed undercover in all his short life. Here people didn’t care.

_Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption and filth everywhere._ – he thought somberly as the Degenerate wannabe-temptress harlot behind him whispered sickly sweet promises on his ear, leaning on his shoulders, flashing bits of skin, leaving him nauseously conscious of the cheap perfume she wore in excessive quantities all over her person.

She belonged to a cross, her and her cheap perfume. Like the rest of them. Like anybody who dared to touch him _without his permission_.

Effectively masking his much hatred and disgust towards his surroundings, feeling powerful by harboring such violence on his soul but being able to deceive the world around, master in the art of masking emotions and extreme control over his body language, his eyes didn’t abandon the game the very moment various sets of footgear, accompanied by also various sets of vastly different voice tones, claimed the Gomorrah casino entrance.

First, there was this cultured, soft voice of a man asking for a table for five people.

Then, immediately after his polite petition, the slurred voice of a woman in her thirties asked something about whiskey while a gruff young man argued a bit with the receptionist about the handing-over-weapons policy.

While keeping his concentration on the game and tuning out the insistent sexual innuendoes from the woman behind his back, the elegant young gambler risked a brief glance from under his brown fedora towards the newcomer group.

And the first thing that drew his attention wasn’t the obvious red beret and NCR uniform the gruff young man wore or the Followers of the Apocalypse’s Doctor overall the polite blonde man sported as if was nothing, but the small girl in a surprisingly well-preserved white and pink pre-War flowery dress and military combat boots that accompanied them all.

Surrounded by full adults way taller than herself, she looked even more vulnerable and doe-eyed when another young woman in the group who had remained silent since they had entered put her right arm around her shoulders in a friendly although _very protective_ way while she guided her with a smile towards the assigned table for all of them, both sliding in a soft murmur of dresses amidst the general ruckus.

The cunning fair-haired gambler used his ears rather than his eyes to follow them among the noisy establishment full of music, laughter, wolf-whistlings towards the strippers on the scenario, and distant sounds from the slot machines.

At least until his current game was over, that is.

They ordered their drinks and some light meal: roasted brahmin bits with jalapeño sauce and gecko egg omelet all wrapped up in maize tortillas for all plus whiskey for the cowgirl lookalike woman, beer for the NCR man, wine for the blonde doctor and the quiet young woman… and, surprisingly, agave fruit juice for the small girl in the flowery dress.

Not many patrons from any of the three available casinos on the Strip would order a juice without any alcoholic addition on it. She must be pretty young and unused to get her liver in the compromising position of intoxication.

He immediately liked that. Clean Profligates with clean organisms. He also wondered vaguely if she smoked, for the white teeth he had briefly spotted from the distance on her mouth, all full and even, seemed to say otherwise.

“Now, we need to get a plan before making our _grand entrance_ there.” – said the voice of the polite blonde man, the unofficial spokesman for the entire group, it seemed – “We wouldn’t like half the entire Tops’ staff pointing their guns to us as soon as he recognizes her, do we?”

Sharpening his ear towards a potential interesting affair inside one of the Three Families, the spying gambler flashed a rather insolent Broadway Straight over the table, earning immediately grunts of exasperation and impotence from the rest of the players. End of the game.

“How about…?” – very timidly, the youthful voice of the small girl hesitated, as if considering her next choice words – “I’ve already told Vero and…”

“And I’ve already explained to you that such a plan doesn’t sit well in my graces, Six.” – the other young woman, presumably the ‘Vero’ one, interrupted her – “You are not doing such a thing.”

“What plan are you two talking about?” – asked the polite blonde man.

As he calmly collected his earnings translated in casino chips that he would later turn into caps, the spying gambler turned elegantly on his heel as he chased away the harlot’s unwanted attentions with a cold blue stare while walking straightly to the dinner tables.

That way he caught the furious blushing spreading down the neck and shoulders of the small girl, the presumably ‘Six’, as she gave her companions an uneasy look.

Rolling up her eyes, the ‘Vero’ woman sighed.

“She wants to try her luck by… let’s say “dissuading” the guy into getting with her all _private_.”

The spying gambler didn’t have to cast them another glance to know how their faces would look like now if the choir of gasps was any indicative.

“Are you fucking nuts there, girlie?!” – the NCR dog grunted rather than exclaimed - "You are NOT doing that!"

“Hell yeah, gurl!” – laughed the slurry voice from the cowgirl lookalike woman – “Dat’s not even a half-bad plan t’ere. Let tha bastard’s pants slide down ‘is ankles… ‘n then, shove a bullet right in ‘is balls! Ha, ha!”

“I’m not planning to let him get his pants off!” – Six protested, mortification and embarrassment all over her voice as she got it lower – “He will get a bullet first if he fucking dares…”

“I fail to see what’s actually the scariest of both situations here: Cass encouraging and even _laughing_ at something that it is not funny at all… or you actually considering getting a little _tête à tête_ with the man who almost blew your brains out, Six.” – the Followers of the Apocalypse polite man scolded sternly – “And this, providing you can sneak up a weapon bigger and deadlier than a knife between your skirts, if you get lucky enough.”

“I was planning to hide a tiny Police pistol in my panties… They don’t seem to search you _that_ thoroughly…”

As he took a seat barely a table far from them and made the customary gesture to order something, the spying gambler scoffed inwardly. Only an _amateur_ would attempt to smuggle a gun with such a big handle inside their undies into one of the Strip’s casinos. No matter how frilly or puffy the dress doing the hiding trick, old elastic bands from Old World’s underwear were not exactly made to deal with such an _inconvenient_ and _heavy_ extra package. Not to mention the awkward way to keep the walk balancing between not looking suspicious and not letting the pistol drop on the ground.

More likely she ends getting the gun along with her undies all over The Tops floorboards.

And it wasn’t an amusing or even an enticing mental image at all.

It was a rather _pathetic _image, even for a Profligate like her.

However, as they were served their order and he got the chance of asking the barmaid for a frozen Nuka-Cola, the group shifted their interest towards the filled tortillas and drinks and forgot momentarily about their predicament as they devoured hungrily their meal.

He had all the time of the world once he got his soft drink and palated the sweet coolness of caffeine going straight to his brains. He liked to indulge himself from time to time with this pre-War Dissolute drink that would make him endure better many hours of deprived sleep and help him focus on his task. It wasn’t deadly addictive (though he suspected that it couldn’t be healthy at all even with the rads taken out by the freezers’ RadAway coated ice. Caffeine was still caffeine) and it wasn’t a luxury he could have very often where he came from.

Not that he had better things to do while he awaited Alerio’s report, so…

Sipping on his Nuka-Cola while schooling a carefully constructed mask of idle absent indifference, he took note of each member of the strange ragtag group while resting his eyes way longer on the small girl on the white and pink dress and military boots.

She was nothing out of the ordinary: short, bony, big black eyes matching short unkempt black hair, bushy black brows and big white front teeth.

But she had this odd electronic device attached to a gauntlet that she was wearing on her left hand, a Pip-Boy he recalled it was called. One of those military pre-War toys that almost every Vault dweller had on their power. Best example? The owner of the Vault 21 Gift Shop and manager of said Vault lodging, Sarah Weintraub.

He had engaged the blonde woman once or twice in conversation and it had taken very little prodding on his part for her starting spilling the beans about the inner working web with mails and videogames between users’ terminals (not that he knew much, besides the basics, about computers), about her brother living in the other non-accessible part of Vault 21, about her fear of getting outside the Vault and, most interesting, about her open dislike towards Mr. House and his “everything on the Strip is mine” policy.

He would admit, if only to himself, that he felt a bit envious of the girl and her pretty bauble. If the thing was anything like Weintraub’s, given how much use the Vault woman give it, it would prove… an interesting valuable for his field job. He had heard that those things had maps saved on their internal memory that could be updated as soon as you walked into a distinguishable pre-War location such as other Vaults. Very interesting.

Now that he thought about it, besides Vault dwellers, this ‘Six’ girl wasn’t the first person he saw flashing one of those devices out in the open.

And just when he started recalling the other particular individual he had saw with the toy in question, a barmaid brought him another Nuka-Cola he hadn’t asked for that had a folded note sticked at its bottom.

Getting his temper under control as he visualized Alerio’s face and how pleasurable would it be to stomp a boot on it squarely for blatantly disobeying his orders regarding how they ought to communicate on Profligate territory while undercover, he unstuck the note wordlessly while he opened the soft drink, pocketed the cap and gave it a long gulp.

He almost choked on the bubbly dark soda as his blue eyes scanned over the few lines written on it.

_“You are a non-caring rat for what I saw. It seems that there’s nothing new under the sun after all._  
_Incidentally, and speaking of pretty girls you are eyeing with no shame, rumor says that the brunette with the short hair has entered and left half an hour later the Lucky 38 this morning.  
_ _Maybe you should consider checking your spectacles. Just saying._

_Enjoy the drink.”_

Blinking a couple of times, first staring stupidly at the dumb encrypted message about nothing new to report on the NCR (Non-Caring Rat, really?) and, thus, on their infiltrated agent there… the fair-haired gambler folded the note and proceeded to pocket it as if it was nothing while taking another good peek towards the small girl with the short black hair blushing profusely at some crude remark the redhead drunkard cowgirl-lookalike woman had just made in between laughs.

It couldn’t be… _she did_ look like a girl, no mistake on that… how it will be possible that he had…?

His memory then went back almost four months earlier, when everything had been far simpler than these days with New Vegas Radio proclaiming to anyone willing to tune on the dial about an obscure fourth force in between the New California Republic pushing their rifles and their neverending politics on the Mojave against the resistance that offered Robert House and the Three Families while, on the other side of the Dam, Caesar’s Legion was perched like a gigantic bird of prey, awaiting its next opportunity to seize New Vegas, this Post-Apocalyptic New Babylon, from the hands of the meek and unworthy.

The Courier from the Mojave Express, leader of a small, although growing, group of adherents who were warlords in some places as well as peacemakers in others.

He recalled Nipton, the debased vices deeply rooted in that cesspool of a city being cleansed through blood and fire by his hand.

Each inhabitant had been a twisted mockery to Humankind itself, each house a den of debauchery and perversion, each cry echoing inside their walls a testament of cowardice… each minute of the eerie silence of the desert against the acrid smell of burned tires and broken flesh a triumph of purity over corruption and filth.

The lottery had been a success… even with that idiot who had earned his chance to leave with both of his legs intact so he would spread word of them running in circles until he had almost bumped into a lone traveler who had doubted a while before entering Nipton.

He remembered being thinking about what a waste of a winning prize for such an imbecile… until the newcomer had gotten on his field of view.

This one. This one looked focused and sane enough if wearing their head low was any indication that what they were witnessing was, at least to some degree, horrific to watch. And he could tell that much by just observing the way the walking figure was purposefully avoiding any eye contact with the agonizing crucified men displayed at both sides in neat rows towards the city’s Main Hall, where he and his men surrounded by a pack of trained Legion mongrels had waited patiently as the stranger had approached.

Baggy dirty repairman overalls, combat boots, one faded cammo glove on the right hand, a full gauntlet holding a Pip-Boy on the full left forearm, a rusty chestplate tightly strapped at their midsection, shreds of what once should have been a green scarf holding tight around the chin and mouth, baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, the newcomer had the look of a scavenger who didn’t know yet how to strike a look to appear impressive.

Black crew cut, a weathered 10mm old pistol and an automatic switchblade at their hip plus a floating mechanical orb buzzing over their head, the stranger had looked to not be more than five feet or so tall.

Again, not impressive at all, which had suited him just fine. The last thing he had needed at that moment had been a brute with too many chems on their system to know which battles pick and which not. Better a frightened scavenger kid, for the stranger had looked like a kid on their early teens, than yet another Powder Ganger or a raider to deal with.

“Don’t worry.” – he had assured the kid with a soft, yet very cold intonation – “I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these Degenerates. It's useful that you happened by.”

Last thing he had wanted was to have a teenager starting crying or pleading for their life. His and his men’s uniforms were a giveaway of who they were and what their business with the town had been.

The kid had raised their head a bit and he had been totally sure that he was speaking to a boy. He _had looked_ like a boy, no soft curves evident under the big clothes, and his posture had been a _boy’s posture_. Wary but not shy like a girl would have presented herself.

In fact, it was due to him thinking the stranger a boy that he had started talking. Were he had suspected the stranger a girl, he would have limited himself to slap her on a collar to redirect her steps to Cottonwood Cove.

The younger they captured them, the easier for them to be assimilated into their society.

It wasn’t personal, the more women on fertile age they managed to adhere to their cause, the earlier their population would substantially increase. Even the filthy female prostitutes from that cesspool of a city who hadn’t been too old or too sick were valuable assets he had not included in the lottery. They had been put on slave collars and had been sent promptly to Cottonwood Cove with the first group commanded by one of his most trusted men.

Those had been his orders. Again, nothing personal.

“I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton.” – he had continued after a brief inspection on what he had thought to be a boy, freckled nose and full cheeks insinuating behind the ragged scarf, concluding that such a little person, despite the cybernetic device floating by his side, wouldn’t give him or his men any trouble – “To memorize every detail.” – he had added, giving the other a grandiloquent gesture with his right arm as if encompassing the area surrounding them, his left occupied with the weight of the chainsaw he had against his hip – “And then, when you move on?” – after a few seconds letting a heavy silence envelop his words, he sentenced – “I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar's Legion taught here…” – then he had raised his voice an octave, bringing emphasis where he knew it would claim its due effect – “_Especially_ any NCR troops you happen to run across.”

Wrinkling slightly his nose, the boy had coughed a bit as if still not being used to the stench of smoke from burning tires mixed with charred flesh and spilled blood that surrounded them like black fog against the sunset’s red sky.

“Why?” – he had asked, his voice a mere raspy whisper muffled by the scarf, slightly high-pitched. The reedy voice of probably a thirteen/fourteen-year-old – “Why doing this to an entire population? Why the hurry in letting the NCR know? What do you intend to achieve?”

_“Intend to achieve”._ That was not a phrasing he would have suspected to come from the lips of a scavenger, for they rarely could string a full sentence without swearing, repeating, inventing or mixing words to palliate their limited knowledge on vocabulary. That alone had informed the legionary that he wasn’t dealing with a common simpleton.

He had felt pleased. Pleased for the evident curiosity behind those questions, pleased for finding a young boy educated enough to follow his conversation and the meaning behind his actions.

Pleased at getting, for once, genuine interest instead of outright rebuff coming from a non-Legion member.

If he wouldn’t suspect that the good-for-nothing of a winner of the lottery wasn’t a safe bet that would provide the NCR the message he had intended to deliver them, he would offer this lad a place within the Legion. Educated people were a rare sight.

“Where to begin?” – he had smiled, absolutely comfortable with a topic he felt strongly about – “That we intend to let them know that they are weak, and we are strong? This much was known already.” – however, recalling the events that had led to the city’s demise… recalling how that slug of a man they had had for Mayor had kept looking at him in that disgusting leering manner as he had offered the pig money in exchange of his absolute cooperation, he couldn’t help but put on a grimace of utter disgust – “But the depths of their moral sickness, their… _dissolution_?” – he had almost spat the word – “Nipton serves as the perfect object lesson.”

“What lesson does a dead city have to learn?” – the boy had inquired, oddly profound both in his words and intonation, odd yet pleasing enough to compel an answer – “What did they do to deserve such a punishment?”

Clever, clever little boy.

“Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt.” – he had explained, revulsion and affront threatening to spill from his very tongue as he had spoken. The bleary, bulging eyes of Mayor Steyn, bald and greasy, roaming his body shamelessly still too fresh in his memory – “It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself… the people here didn't care.” – he had concluded with an even tone, bitterness and venom still deep hidden beneath the surface – “It was a town of _whores_.”

Under his big aviator sunglasses, the boy had frowned.

“For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap.” – he had continued explaining calmly, knowing he had managed to hit a nerve when the boy’s mouth had opened in shock, his big front teeth biting into the scarf’s green shreds – “Only when I sprang it did they realize they were caught inside it, too.”

After a short silence, the boy had spoken again.

“So they… they…”

“Yes?”

Inhaling slowly as if steadying himself, the boy’s response had caught him low-guarded.

“They deserved it.” – he had muttered with defeat – “That’s the message you want to send: that their betrayal was their undoing even if you were the hand behind the deed. Even the very customers deserved it for, by your logic, they were betraying themselves and the factions they represent.” – sighing again, he had raised his head, aviator sunglasses against tinted biker goggles – “Your reasoning is hard to refute, yes… but your _lessons_ are cruel… very, very cruel…”

Raising his pale brows from behind his goggles, the legionary had considered the boy in front of him yet again. He hadn’t liked the implications of his response, but he wouldn’t accept such a misleading conclusion coming from someone as intelligent as this one. He simply wouldn’t.

“It is cruelty to let them know their flaws?” – he had asked, cold yet unusually incensed – “To force them to acknowledge that their egotism, _ergo_ their individualism, ultimately proved to be their doom?” – leaning a bit over the small lad from his tall height like a parent chiding gently their child, he had continued – “I daresay that this warning shouldn’t be interpreted as mere _cruelty_ at all, but a small _mercy_ our Lord Caesar deems fit to bestow upon the careless and unfaithful.” – however, diminishing his almost passionate outburst, his voice had relaxed again and regained the perennial pleasant tone he always used, his most lethal weapon – “It has nothing to do with logics or points of view, but the truth, as terrible as it is.”

“I… see.” – the boy had murmured while extending idly his left hand towards the mutts that had been slowly approaching the both of them as they had kept talking.

One of the beasts had sniffed briefly his small fingers and had started to lick them gently, the rest of the pack following immediately, swaying tails and drooling panting.

Seeing him surrounded by the dogs, unafraid and at total ease despite the circumstances, the legionary thought that he liked the boy. Intelligent and polite enough, given enough time he could prove a fine addition to Caesar’s Frumentarii… providing he would survive training, that is.

It had felt disappointing and a shame to let him go that easily, but he had needed someone sober enough to send his message as he couldn’t trust the impaired judgment of the bumbling fool that had won the lottery.

“I’ll do it.” – the boy had declared without looking at him – “I will deliver your message to the Mojave Outpost. The Rangers sent me here in the first place to assess the extent of the damage.”

That… had been a dangerous declaration to make in front of a whole group of armed legionaries. Either the lad was incredibly brave or incredibly crazy, he was still _very_ fortunate that all of the present men had been Frumentarii and not common soldiers. _Ad spectare, ad colligere, ad nuntiare… et ut rursus redire_. Observe, gather, report… and strike back. Never in a different order. Not for a Frumentarius.

“Now the New California Republic uses their young ones to do scout work? Pathetic.” – he had spat contemptibly, briefly tempted to show the boy just how much disgust he felt by means of _carving it_ in his flesh.

“I’m not one of them.” – the boy had replied immediately as if the notion were somehow insulting to him – “For what I’ve heard and seen so far, they can’t make things progress with so much written nonsense and bureaucracy they could choke on their forms… but they have beds, warm covers, cool water and nice packed rations. Good enough payment in exchange for taking a peek, I guess.”

Immediately, the sudden violence of his thoughts had gone as quickly as it had come.

A vagrant hungry child then, shamelessly used by the NCR to do their dirty work.

Taking him by the shoulders on an impulse, the boy had not even flinched at the contact.

“Then, should our paths cross again, I will make you an offer. An offer I do hope you will take into consideration given the current circumstances.” – he had said in all earnest, giving a gentle squeeze and letting go the bony shoulders under his hard fingertips – “For now, I bid you _vale_… until we meet again.”

Perhaps they would never see each other again _ever_… but he had felt obliged to extend the invitation to this one. A glimpse of hope for such a hopeless situation for a lone child striving for survival. He, too, had been a child once.

However, as he had given his men the signal and the dogs had followed suit after he clicked his tongue twice, he had stopped in his tracks when the boy had called to him again.

“Wait…” – he had said, uncertainty tinting his raspy voice – “Should I want to accept any offer you would extend… Who should I ask for?”

Turning his head, he had given the other a brief glance over his shoulder.

“Ask for Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar’s Frumentarii.”

After that, with a quick nod, the child had scurried away followed by his odd floating toy beeping behind him.

“What do you think?” – he had asked Gabban casually as both had carried on forward at the front of the men, miles and miles of reddened sands ahead of them.

But Gabban had simply shrugged. Bushy sandy brows arched, nose dirty and scrunched. Despite his wide gait and strong structure, he still got his nose dirty like an eight-year-old scoundrel. Nineteen years didn't make a man yet. Nor twenty. You stop growing when you turn twenty-one.

Many of them were still just boys. Boys playing war and politics, just like the one they had left behind.

“Smart kid, wrong allegiances.” – he had simply answered.

And that had been all. He had reported back to his Lord and that should have been the end of the story… until it proved to be a much more extended and intricate tale that he had anticipated at first.

Because the next months Mr. New Vegas, the self-proclaimed radioman that got surprisingly fast new information on the Mojave’s affairs, had kept proclaiming the whereabouts, achievements and many virtues of an anonymous Courier that had half the former State of Nevada painted with the signs of revolution.

The newsman and the many people who had dealt with this Courier never gave the same description (or a description at all) of the aforementioned person, not even a name… but this Courier was becoming a celebrity at a fast pace, the thing escalating high enough for Mr. New Vegas keep calling this person “The Last Best Hope of Humanity” at the minimum opportunity.

This singular person in a very singular way was cutting through the Mojave’s issues like a knife cuts through butter and nobody seemed to be particularly alerted that such greatness couldn’t be played single-handedly by only one person at all.

Vulpes had a web of spies all over the Mojave and he had gotten confused and a bit irritated that his men couldn’t get even two reports agreeing with one another.

First, there was Picus on Camp McCarran not being able to provide a physical description of the Courier, not even a name, but insisting that said Courier had been helping the NCR with small local issues that had granted this person a permanent place to rest, wash and eat should the Courier or their companions would be on the area, totally free of charge; permission to purchase any kind of medical supplies with a generous discount and a sort of an invitation to prove their loyalty to the NCR by means of entering their ranks.

The NCR wanted to recruit this Courier to their cause and they had already made arrangements to make them feel at home.

Then, there was Gladius, the intermediary agent that dealt with Caesar’s dealings with the Van Graffs and their possible trading agreement on armament regards. He had actually seen this Courier. Or, at least, many of the Courier’s companions. Once. And in the middle of the night. And he hadn’t known that it had been the Courier at the moment when they had arrived at the agreed place.

It had been three people. And a cyberdog. And a ghoul. And a supermutant. And some odd floating device buzzing over their heads.

_That _one last detail had made Vulpes start to suspect that this Courier could be very well his intellectual little boy with the aviator glasses, even if it had been a long shot… even if Gladius had insisted that the three humans had been, being his impressions correct, all women. One hooded and the other two, a redhead and a brunette respectively. And he hadn’t spoken with neither of them, but had instead to deal with the ghoul who, emboldened by the supermutant threatening stance, besides sassing and making fun of him with a humor as dry as the desert and a Spanish accent as strong as a sandstorm, had kept poking him with odd questions regarding this trading agreement until Gladius had lost his patience and had demanded respect in the name of “a cause greater than what their feeble Degenerated minds could possibly comprehend”.

That statement had made the ghoul and the three women exchange a few glances between them but they had said nothing.

The ghoul had managed to get some caps from him speaking of a non-informed negotiated small fee for the sampling drop. And Gladius was actually _glad_ (no pun intended) that their business had concluded despite suspecting that he had been somehow scammed.

Said report had told Vulpes one thing: this Courier was aware of the Legion’s presence all over the territory and was cautious enough to get surrounded with, or even send, a group of cohorts to confound people, just in case someone would start to suspect who or what this person was.

Unable to extract any valuable information out of these reports, Vulpes Inculta, leader of the Frumentarii, had clutched at straws and had presumed that, given the nature of the floating device, a commodity which, if their undercover agents disguised as couriers from the Mojave Express’ records were accurate, had been an exclusivity to the fallen Enclave faction from the Capitol four years prior… situated the device either a possession from an Enclave survivor, his little boy with the baseball cap… or either a person said boy had chosen to sell his electronic pet.

Either way, he had been adamant to his men to keep searching for a small, well-spoken Caucasian boy in his teens wearing a Pip-Boy.

Then, Karl’s report on the Great Khans, even if filled with _exhaustingly_ boring details about how he found their leader, Papa Khan, and his cohorts to be “scarcely a match for a Legion recruit” and how “loathsome their barbaric customs were”, _et cetera_, _et cetera_… Vulpes had dig quite the interesting fragment out of the long, rambling and repetitive report about a certain stranger accompanied by a man, two women and a floating electronic sphere going straight into the Red Canyon, Great Khans’ territory, and, after getting acquainted with some initiate called Jerry the Punk and exchanging “some gallantries” with the local drug dealers, had parted and returned several times, always sending their respects to Papa Khan by means of other members of the Great Khans… until this stranger had petitioned a private audience with him through Regis, Papa Khan’s Second-In-Command.

Apparently, they had figured out a deal with the Powder Gangers occupying Vault 19: the Great Khans would accept Samuel Cooke and his boys on their tribe in exchange of supplying explosives and undergoing the due ritual of initiation every Great Khan would have to endure to become a fully active member of the community, a brother.

Both parties had accepted these terms and the stranger, whom Karl had never actually seen in person, had disappeared from sight.

Again, the presence of the floating device amidst the wondrous achievements of a helpful stranger gaining a community’s trust and respect. Never a name, always lots of rumors about said stranger asking for a man in a checkered suit with a golden pistol.

It had to be the same person, without any doubt. This Courier everyone seemed to know something about and yet nothing useful at all.

That was… until one of his undercover agents posing as couriers for the Mojave Express had come with a copy of an incomplete datasheet saying the following:

** _ID:_ ** _ Z-009M_  
_**Position:** Courier._  
_ **Type of Contract:** Permanent._  
_ **Contract Start Date:** November 5th, 2278._  
_ **Name:** __  
_ **Gender:** __  
_ **Age:** __  
_ **Birthplace:** __  
_ **Residence:** Tenpenny Tower, Capitol Wasteland._  
_ **Languages:** English (Native), Spanish (Native), French (Basic), Latin (Basic), Chinese (Very Basic)._  
_ **Can Read:** Yes._  
_ **Can Write:** Yes._  
_ **Academic Formation:** Python, Java, JavaScript, ASL, PHP, HTML, XML, XSD, MS-DOS. Basic Elementary School Generic Knowledge._  
_ **Known Medical Conditions: **__  
_ **Health Insurance:** Yes (Fully Covered)._  
_ **Emergency Contact:** W.J. Burke (Tenpenny Tower, Capitol Wasteland)._  
_ **Recommendations:** W.J. Burke._  
_ **Side Notes:** Reliable, responsible, can be trusted with delicate shipments. Polite, diplomatic, non-belligerent. Basic First Aid training. Operating Pip-Boy._

Without knowing _who_ this Courier was, Vulpes already had an approximated idea of _what_ this person was capable of.

And there was the floating mechanical sphere (Enclave device, Capitol address… it had to be) plus the Pip-Boy thing.

Too many coincidences. Too convenient data absence.

This Burke person… might worth sending an agent to investigate. It would take some time, though. The Capitol Wasteland, the Old Washington DC, wasn’t exactly _close_ to the Mojave.

What possibly could have been so important to deliver for this Courier to navigate through the whole North America from the East coast to the West end? What routes did this person have taken? Did somebody recognized or even remembered such a person?

It had to be, the boy, the scavenger with the aviator sunglasses. It was his best lead, he had to try.

So he had written his report and had gotten the approval from Caesar himself: should they localized the person known solely as “The Courier”, presumably an educated young boy with a knack for electronic devices and computers, Vulpes himself had to contact him and extend an offer of safe passage through Legion controlled territory to Cottonwood Cove. Once there, the men at the camp had specific orders to not attack and/or enslave the Courier or any of his companions (though a word of warning against bringing the ghoul or the supermutant along would have to be communicated to this person prior sending them to Cottonwood Cove) and to transport them safely to Fortification Hill at the other side of The Dam.

Once there, the Courier and his companions would be treated as honor guests.

Also, the Praetorian Guards had specific orders to only allow the Courier _alone_ to enter Caesar’s tent in order to discuss a possible allegiance for the incoming second battle for Hoover Dam.

Given all of this… the plans had shifted in a dangerous way now that the Courier had been confirmed a woman.

Vulpes didn’t know what to make of the situation at the moment: on one hand, he had a girl, an _awkwardly young_ girl who would pose not only a direct challenge against what many men of the Legion would view as a mere inferior creature being given a position of “undeserved privilege” by even just being able to speak directly with Caesar himself… but also a proof of Vulpes’ _incompetence_ for letting _slip_ such an important detail about a possible Legion allegiance.

In truth, it was just politics regarding the views of the soldiers and how their society treated women in general. But politics or not, Caesar would not be pleased _in the least _to learn that his head of Intelligence had been fooled enough that he couldn’t tell the difference between a _boy_ and a _girl_ despite having engaged in a long conversation with said _girl_.

But on the other hand… he had to be sure. Sure that this wasn’t Alerio’s mistake and this girl wasn’t yet another of the Courier’s companions who had been casually the one sent by him to deal with the mysterious opening of the Lucky 38.

He had to be sure that this girl was truly the Courier… sure that this wasn’t yet another disguise and, even if Alerio ended being correct about the identity issue, that the Courier was a _she_ at all.

For what he knew, it could be a _transvestite_ trick to confound people. Coming from someone as elusive as this infamous Courier persona, he would expect that much.

And his opportunity came with the two brunette girls, arms intertwined, ruffling skirts and two sets of noisy footwear going straight to the main level bathrooms.

He had sipped his soft drink with delectation, calmly, smoothly. And with that same calmed smoothness he had gotten up his seat, hands sheathed inside pockets, and had made his way towards the bathrooms.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Six!” – he heard the ‘Vero’ woman hissing nervously as the sound of water running came next once he approached silently the bathrooms – “You okay?!” – nervous small heels met dresses ruffling amidst choked panting – “Are you going to throw up?” – then, small whimpering noises, like a tiny wounded animal, vibrating in a soft echo amidst the muffled silence of the bathrooms; music and disorder beating outside that precarious bubble – “It is it again, right? Your head.” – two Mississippis passed – “Okay, stay put. I’m going to fetch Arcade. Keep that wet rag against your forehead, ‘kay? I’m coming back in a minute.”

And, just as easy as that, the clicking heels getting farther left a singular silence after them, only broken from the occasional dripping of a faucet bad closed.

He had gotten inside the yellowed room minding himself around the cracked tiles until his dusty brown shoes and brown pants had gotten in front of a small figure shrunken on the floor.

She had both hands over her ears as if wanting to block any possible harmful sounds while she managed to maintain attached a wet yellowish rag against her forehead, greasy waterdrops sliding down her face, dripping from her chin to the neckline of her dainty dress. Closed eyes and reddened face.

She was in pain and completely oblivious of her surroundings and the man standing in front of her.

Quickly assessing the situation, he produced a linen handkerchief from his jacket’s front pocket and a small bottle of Chloroform he always had on hand from one of the side’s pocket.

Next thing he knew was that getting an unconscious girl whose boots weigh far more than her legs scoped on his arms while arranging her posture like she would be drunk instead of unconscious was a tricky task. He had the previsional thought to wrap her on his jacket while trying to balance both of her arms around his neck.

That had been the way he had presented himself in front of the muscle of the casino, feigning the doting boyfriend act carrying the drunken girlfriend to their common room, earning more than one sympathizing look. He was young, she was young; nothing suspicious at all.

So he had carried her to the lower lobby, inside of a small yet comfy room he had rented only for himself while he supervised from the shadows that the Omertas were keeping their end of the deal with Caesar, and had dropped her gently over the rounded bed while thinking about his next course of action.

It had been _obscenely easy_ to get her alone and weak enough to put his drugging trick out of his sleeve. He even hadn’t to persuade or intimidate her to accompany him.

It felt somehow… _disappointing_.

And the disappointment took on higher levels the moment he had examined her face at close distance and, while switching hands over her facial features, trying to remember how the little boy in Nipton had looked like with eyes covered with aviator sunglasses and mouth and chin partially covered by a ragged scarf, he had reached the conclusion that, whether he liked it or not, this was the very same person he had engaged in a conversation four months before.

And, as his fingers pried further into her scalp, he felt the uneven scarring two bullets had left over her left ear, deep hidden amidst short black hair on her temple.

No doubt, this was also the infamous Courier from the Mojave Express if his informants from Goodsprings had delivered the news about the local “miraculous resurrection” correctly. The scars spoke volumes by themselves alone.

Also, to his splitting growing headache, this person was female. He had assumed that much while he had carried her and had felt no evidence of male genitalia against his arm.

A girl, a transvestite, a courier, and a very influential person that Caesar sought to enlist to his cause. All condensed on only one person.

This would end incredibly badly given enough circumstances that were already available on the platter, he could tell by just looking at her.

She was a child. With her peppered nose and her (very) slightly tanned complexion full of skin and bones, she wasn’t anything close to a whole woman if the absence of hips and breasts was any indicative. Not young enough to be considered a schoolgirl, not old enough to even look _passable feminine_.

This was a disaster. _A big bad disaster._

Pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, Vulpes’ headache got worse the very moment he got his back towards the unconscious girl and heard her stirring. He needed more time… time enough to focus and uncoil this huge mess before reaching a decision.

It was almost an automatic move when he reached again for his linen handkerchief and Chloroform bottle. He needed her under control, he needed…

“Urgh…” – she groaned – “Did I blackout…?”

Quickly hiding the drug bottle and, instead, taking a slow approach to her with a seemingly innocent wet handkerchief to treat her headache, he directed his steps calmly towards her lying form.

Controlled and measured body language. That was the key to ensure somebody’s unconscious trust.

However, she squinted her dark eyes and scanned him from head to toe, taking in his white wavy hair and partial melanin absence condition.

“Do… do I know you?” – she asked, unsure, getting slowly up to sit on the rounded bedside.

He didn’t blink even once.

“Yes.” – he answered, earning immediately a big doe-eyed expression from her, his voice sounding… immensely tired to his own ears – “Yes, I believe so… Courier Six.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "crazy supermutant"
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: this story is very detailed in my head and has it's due arc and ending... but its writing wasn't planned.  
In fact, I should be paying more attention to my other fics, but Vulpes and Six insisted me A LOT to tell their story, so I had to comply.  
This is NOT going to be a soft story or a lighthearted one. In fact, I believe you can tell that this is going to be pretty dramatic if the tone in which I have started is any indication. New Vegas is full of vices, the NCR is full of bureaucratic idiocy, the Legion is full of child soldiers and Robert House is full of shit. Nothing is salvageable in such an environment except good feelings between broken people. Be this a warning of what is coming ahead.  
Yes, Vulpes is 20 here. Why? Because the Garden of Eden Creation Kit (G.E.C.K.) says so. Don't believe me? Go ahead and take a look by yourself. It fucking broke my heart.  
Yes, yes, I know the G.E.C.K. is not a reliable source in ages regard, for it depicts Arcade and Cass almost ten years younger than they are supposed to be and Boone is fucking fifteen, so shut up. I already know this fact and it still broke my heart that Vulpes is ONLY twenty years old.  
I mean... he's a fucking child! And, if we dwell on the Lore enough... we get that the older people on the Legion are actually Caesar himself and his Praetorian Guards, Lucius the oldest by far. Even fucking Lanius is supposed to be a young man! This is a child army!  
I'm not saying that I sympathize with the Legion, because I do NOT... but I can sympathize with the plight of many men-children being robbed from their cradles or from their mothers' arms. They are immature, hormonal, brutalized, brain-washed young dudes who think women are both dollies to play with and mothers to serve them. It's so fucking sad and stupid and unnecessary that it hurts. A lot.  
So, this is why Vulpes is so young. And why my Courier is also a kid herself. No oversexualized attraction, no power-play, no mistreatment, no invincible individuals, no rapist Vulpes, no cunning bitch Courier. Just two kids needing a friend and playing war at the same time.  
What do you think?


	2. Psychobabble

* * *

_She had been dreaming with her again. With her bestie, back when both of them had been little girls._

_Odd thing had been that she couldn’t recall her name for the life of her, but it hadn’t mattered much. No one bothers about such tiny details when there’s pistachio ice-cream, sour cream and onion chips you could dip in nachos’ salsa, barbecue pizza with extra cheese and fucking Nuka-Cola Vanilla._

_Her best friend wore glasses and she was chubby and sweet. Her hair the color of that Swedish milky chocolate that both of them also were allowed to eat from time to time._

_That evening they had been watching “Labyrinth” on their respective Pip-Boys (they both had wanted to paint their devices pink and renaming them “Pink-Girls”. They had already developed a feminized interface that showed a curvaceous, long-haired caricature of the iconic Pip Boy cartoon doing the same stuff as the original. Her bestie had a knack for arts and design, and she had a knack for programming, so…) and, while they had kept shoving trash down their throats as the world fell down in a bubbled ballroom in front of their fascinated eyes, they both had sighed like the two stupid, hormonal twelve-year-olds they had been at that moment._

_Both had been a pair of geeks, so they supported each other when the rest of the kids on their section made fun of them calling them “freakys”._

_They had cared very little once they had found each other three years prior to that thrice-blessed greasy trashy banquet. And they had become fast friends. Both liked the same movies and shows, both could quote Morpheus’ character from the Matrix trilogy to a fault, both liked videogames, both thought that Grognak comics weren’t just for boys, both were studying together Latin and French just for fun…_

_Both were unattractive, geeky, boyfriend-less kids who still liked those old animation princesses that wore beautiful dresses, had pretty long hairs… and impossibly narrow waists that no healthy girl should sport while being over eight years old._

_And, more importantly: both had loved Nuka-Cola Vanilla._

_It had been so perfect… so good and right… and they were having so much fun…_

_Until said trash food had gotten the wrong way to her stomach and she had gotten sick._

_The oppressing sensation traveling from her tummy towards her throat had snowballed painful and fast until she had managed to roll to her left side and she had started to evacuate violently the contents of her stomach._

_“Whoa, easy there. _ _Easy.” – she heard a voice speaking meanwhile a steady hand secured her thorax to impede that she got falling to the floorboards face down on her own vomit – “Here. You been out cold a couple of days now.”_

_It hadn’t been a couple of days, but more of a full week unconscious dreaming of old times filled with young wishes._

_Filthy walls, filthy rusty ceiling fan, flakes of dust impregnating the air… and the perennial sticky heat gnawing at every inch of her sweaty skin. Bodily odor and greasy sweat smearing the yellowed plastic covering of the squeaky hospital gurney._

_She had hated that place so much. She still hated it._

_The burning sensation filling her nostrils had informed her that the vomit had also gotten out of her nose. Disgusting._

_Old tanned hands had started to clean the mess out of her face along with tears and a shaming trail of snot that had already gotten to her collarbone with a handkerchief. She hadn’t cared much, given how much her head had hurt at that moment, she would have allowed a group of junkies to put her over a radscorpion’s back to play pony._

_Once she managed to calm herself from the post-puke shakings, her eyes focused as she was finally able to get a good look of her benefactor: bald old man, that was for sure. Around his sixties, she would venture. Hoary big mustache, but no purple sash._

_After all, this wasn’t fucking Mexico and they weren’t on a honky-tonk, thank God._

_The old dude had looked like a friggin’ impersonation of an Old West cowboy with boiled leather boots and high pants with suspenders, dark leather gloves, the fucking due scarf to avoid swallowing dust out in the desert, old jaded checkered shir…_

_Wait a minute, she NOW recalled the bastard on a checkered suit that had robbed her back up the hill surrounded by his punks._

** _“Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?”_ **

_He had looked so self-assured, so impossibly clean amidst so much dust. His shiny, perfectly styled hair gleaming in the moonlight as well as the metallic casino chip he had flashed to her before pocketing it again._

** _“You've made your last delivery, kid.”_ **

_Her package, the one she was supposed to…_

** _“Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.”_ **

_No, he HADN’T been sorry. Just the same way she WASN’T going to be sorry the moment she got to kick his balls. She hoped she just got to emasculate him in the process._

** _“From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck.”_ **

_Then the gun, silver and gold and pretty; Virgin Mary weeping from the pristine handle as he had pointed its barrel towards her._

_Hail Maria._

** _“Truth is... the game was rigged from the start.”_ **

_And her world had fallen down, hard and unforgiving. No amounts of songs were going to wipe that from her, ever._

_She had gripped her aching head with both her hands._

_“Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings.” – the old man had kept talking, his voice soft and understanding – “Let’s see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name, kiddo?”_

_The moment she had opened her mouth to answer, her world had just come to a halt when she had realized that she couldn’t remember it._

_But the thing that had spooked her the most had been getting her hands out of her skull and find the left one with traces of dried blood._

_“W… whadda happen’d wuth ma he’d?” – the moment she had slurred out her mouth those very words she had realized just how dry her throat had been at that moment and just how high on Med-X they had left her so her tissues could heal without pain._

_“I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out.” – the kind old man had explained – “I just don't get it. A stiff breeze’d tear you in two but a couple of bullets and you're right as rain. _ _With luck like yours I'm surprised said bullets didn't just turn right around and climb back into the gun, though.”_

_“Bull’ts?”_

_“Two, to be precise. I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of…”_

_She hadn’t allowed the man to continue as she had launched her frail limbs out of the hospital gurney and had gotten on knees and elbows on the floor a good feet far away from the presumed doctor and, after scratching violently the floorboards to get her ridiculous height on two feet, not waiting for the man’s help, she had started to run around the unknown house ‘til she had seen the broken mirror in the bathroom._

_Her hair… her beautiful dark long hair only occupied half her head as the left side had been shaved flush to the chalky cranium skin._

_She had looked like a fucking raider instead of a princess… like those of her animated movies stored on the memory of her Pip-B…_

_“Whoa, kiddo!” – the old man had managed to catch with her a few seconds later – “Not to burst your bubble, but you’re noggin’s still tender. _ _Take it slow now. It ain't a race.”_

_As she had been still in shock, watching herself ugly, looking like shit and smelling awful, she hadn’t noticed the man’s hands coming for her right forearm, taking out the needle from the surgical tube of saline out of her slightly bleeding artery._

_She had allowed him to proceed so far until her dispersed mind had caught with reality’s speed._

_“Ma hair…”_

_“Sorry, kiddo, gotta shave the spot to perform surgery. One of your pretty hairs gets inside tissue while stitching and you can count on an ugly swollen infection afterwards.”_

_She had known that that had sounded logical, and couldn’t argue medical stuff with a doctor._

_She had to inform about this, about what had happened and the lost package. _He _wasn’t going to be happy about this. Not at all._

_“Wh… wher’s ma Pip-Boy, doc?”_

_However, as her question had abandoned her lips, the old man had given her an inquisitive look._

_“What Pip-Boy, kiddo?”_

_Tears had streamed out her eyes before she could fully process the situation._

_She had puked again. And, while she forcibly vomited yellow bile, she cried; and, while she cried, she screamed. Doc hadn’t known what to do with her, trying to calm her wobbling form by saying that perhaps her Pip-Boy was still where the Victor securitron fella had dug her out after being shot. He had to restrain her by the arms to prevent her from running out barefoot, clad only in her undies right up that cursed hill._

_It had taken every ounce of patience and goodwill on the old man’s part to put on with her stubbornness and her hysterical cries, not willing to let her go until she got a shower, dressed herself properly, ate something and spoke with someone called S… _ _Sonrisas? Sonrisas Solares? Sonrisas Como El Sol_ _? **(1)** It had something to do with the sun and laughing… or maybe not. She could recall the woman and her dog… and the geckos that had almost killed her while aiding said woman in hunting them, but nothing beyond that._

_She had taken the food, the borrowed clothes and new, clean-slated Pip-Boy ruefully from the doctor’s generosity, but the shower had done her some good._

_He had told her his name at some point… but, since her awakening, her memory sometimes would find these funny gaps where it would arbitrarily throw random pieces of information, especially names and places if she wasn’t constantly reminded of them._

_After that, she had asked the good doctor to lend her a pair of scissors, a razor and some shaving foam._

_“What are you gonna do with that, kiddo?” – the old man had asked cautiously after her previous displaying._

_“Taking this shit out.” – had been her hard answer, pointing at her half unshaved cranium – “No need for the stupid long hair anymore. I’d rather look a baldie than a motherfucking raider.”_

_He hadn’t argued at that and she had ended in front of the quartered mirror again crying, singing fragments of a song she couldn’t recall the title of and butchering what was left of her once-glorious raven mane._

** _“… Those razors hurt, I can't feel fine my love here tonight, tonight…  
_** ** _Bye bye to this, I can't feel fine my love here tonight, tonight…”_ **

_Later, she would confirm, tears still overflowing her red-rimmed eyes, that her original Pip-Boy, along with her package and many memories, had gone for good._

_But, in their place, had come a new feeling and a purpose to fulfill from that very moment on forwarding: revenge._

* * *

The moment she regained consciousness, her fingertips aimed to feel where she was currently laying… and only found softness.

In fact, she felt this _really_ comfortable like she hadn’t felt since Novac, when she had been forced to rent a motel room at the outrageous price of one hundred caps. Sweet side of the deal had been having a working shower, a working fridge, a working electric cooking stove (damn good gecko chowder she had prepared after getting herself acquainted with the home appliance) and a goddamned gorgeous queen-size bed. No matter the thick layer of dust that had been covering every inch of the place.

Sweeter side of the deal, after uncovering Jeannie May Crawford’s illegal deals with the Legion by aiding Boone on his quest about finding the motherfucker who had sold his wife and unborn child to the wannabe Roman slavers… had been to keep the room’s key for herself indefinitely. After what had transpired and with Jeannie’s brains splattering the ground in front of the green dinosaur still fresh, Cliff Briscoe had been left in charge of both the motel and the gift shop agreeing that she should consider herself now a Novac settler so, logically, she should have a decent house to rest by anytime she wanted.

After that, Boone had joined her and ED-E on their journey towards Boulder City. Despite the ill circumstances that had gotten them together, he had felt like he owed her and he wouldn’t allow a “wisp of a girlie her size to wander alone in the Wasteland with just that floating pile of circuitry to answer for her life”.

Even with all the pain no man should be forced to endure, and even less being just twenty-six years old, Boone was a good pal. Since she had known him, he hadn’t let her down even once.

And so the rest of them were good pals since they had bothered to get her in such a comfortable bed, mmm…

But wait a minute: why was she bedridden in the first place?

Last thing she remembered was going with Vero to the women’s bathroom and…

“Urgh…” – she mumbled, a slow heaviness sitting over her head as the words passed through her lips – “Did I blackout…?”

Though soft and nice, the bed had this odd shape she couldn’t quite put her finger on it by means of just touching it, so she started to get up painfully slow to test her feet.

And just when she thought she had figured out the rounded nest-like shape of the bed, she heard soft footsteps getting near her.

Raising her head to greet, most likely, a frowning mother-hen Arcade, her mind went on a halt for a few seconds as her eyes processed the person in front of her: wearing this brown dapper suit that, instead of complimenting his figure, was like a sore eye in contrast with the odd pallor of his skin, stood a very tall, kinda scrawny boy with the prettiest sad magnetic blue eyes she had ever seen.

He was looking way too confident the more steps he took towards her, wet handkerchief in hand, as she finished sitting by the rounded bedside. His body language way too calm for a stranger.

“Do… do I know you?” – she asked then, unsure and reaching unconsciously for the correct word to address his odd skin tone and white hair. It was written and pronounced the same way (more or less) both in English and Spanish, she believed.

He held her gaze for a moment.

“Yes.” – he finally answered, calm and composed despite the evident weariness marring his posture – “Yes, I believe so… Courier Six.”

After these very words had abandoned his lips, her brain got backwards several months and found herself dumbstruck, noticing how easy it was to identify not just the cadence of the voice itself, but also the way of pronouncing certain consonants.

Then, the image of two rows of crucified guys at each side of the road and the smell of burning tires returned briefly to her so vividly that she momentarily feared she was there again.

Smooth moves, detached attitude and twisted life philosophy, all wrapped in a speech full of colorful pretty words and frightening intentions. He had wanted a witness and she had obliged.

His actions and his apparent lack of concern on the monstrosity he had orchestrated on that small town full of dark secrets had spoken volumes about the vicious kind he pertained to, and yet… he also had shown her the smallest of kindness.

That weird young man with the cold voice, tinted biker goggles, and a coyote’s head obscuring his features, all of him draped in Legion colors, had been the first person after Goodsprings who had shown a shred of real interest and concern for her even if the situation had been wrong and impossibly dangerous.

She had kept recalling this twisted, philosophic and soft-spoken stranger while she had been wandering the Mojave as she had found many pertaining to his faction and profession, but none of them had been like him. Nobody spoke like him, nobody cared in his twisted, completely wrong way.

Nobody would defend the eradication of an entire town in cold blood with arguments and thorough reasoning like him. Nobody would felt personally insulted at being called “cruel” for his deeds. Nobody would try to make her feel better amidst carnage and misery. Nobody would offer a semblance of hope in this bitter land.

Nobody… but him.

“Y… you…” – she stuttered after regaining her voice again, watching him fold his wet handkerchief and pocket it on his trousers too calmly, suspiciously natural and at ease for the realization both knew she had just come with.

“Me.” – he simply stated.

Blinking a couple of times, trying to localize something within her memories as the mental image she previously had of him overlapped with the one her eyes were processing right now. She couldn’t place his chin or his high cheekbones, but somehow his nose and lips seemed to agree with her dulled reminiscence.

“You are that guy…” – she tried once more, finally finding the right words – “In Nipton, with the lessons and the crucifixions. Vul…” – frowning as her tongue couldn’t quite pronounce the words despite having basic Latin knowledge – “Vultur… no…”

The young man’s blue eyes squinted a bit as his whole body kept that casual still posture meanwhile his lips twitched slightly, signaling he wished to speak. However, as the current mental effort was no small thing on her part, she ignored him while stumbling inside her head with words and languages.

“Vul… urgh!” – she groaned in frustration, hitting several times the left side of her skull with a tiny hand as if her brains were an old faulty machine; trying, to no avail, to coerce it to load its contents faster than its processing unit truly could – “_Zorro Salvaje_.”

Raising a pale eyebrow as he took on the familiar yet distant name and language, Vulpes Inculta couldn’t help but notice the particular way she had just translated his name to Spanish. She could have chosen _“Zorro Inculto” _instead, which meant just exactly the original intentions behind the way he had been renamed when he was eleven and the Senior Instructor had made fun of him for not knowing how to spell correctly his original name.

_“Wild Fox”_ sounded far more impressive than _“Uncultured Fox”_ and he was but thankful that the girl had chosen to call him so.

“Knowledgeable, aren’t we?” – he delivered instead. Calm, collected and cold, the way he liked most – “I would not expect less from the one who has managed to steal the attention of half the Mojave, Courier. You have left quite an impression on this deserted land during the short time of your whereabouts chasing after the leader of the Chairmen.”

Frowning slightly, the girl blinked just once as if deep in thought until she released a soft sigh.

“Guess words travel fast here in the desert.” – she guessed – “I shouldn’t be so surprised, though. After all, it’s your job to be well-informed through your Intel, you’re one of the Legion Commanders.” – watching him frown as well, she added quickly – “The NCR has posters of you and that golden-masked man all over their camps. They know quite a bit about your inner structure… or at least who gives the orders among your people.”

Ah, the infamous **_“When you steal NCR equipment, tools and personal propriety… You are his bitch!”_** propaganda. He had a handful of those back on his house in Flagstaff, current Capital of Caesar’s empire until New Vegas would yield, as many of his colleagues kept the tradition of leaving them folded at the feet of the door of the _de facto_ leader of the Frumentarii (but they DIDN'T have the guts to leave the OTHER poster at the feet of the Legate's door, the bunch of chickens). The poster didn’t even depict him, but his former superior and mentor, Callidus Anguis. A snake of a man who, truly paying homage to his name and despite how much venom he had liked to spill amidst his men to keep them controlled, had ended outwitted by the cleverest animal of the pack.

Two years since he had claimed his position by force on fair combat and Vulpes didn’t regret that bittersweet moment when Caesar had given Anguis the thumbs down… and he had torn open his gullet to let him bleed on the arena like a pig. The man had taught him well… too well.

“You know… you’re different of what I devised the first time we spoke.” – she said casually, out of the blue and with a voice that suggested they were some sort of old comrades instead of mere ill-timed acquaintances – “I thought you were thirty-something by the way you expressed yourself, but with the coyote head off you look like my age or so. I’m eighteen… almost. In two months or so I will be anyway. How old are you?”

Taken aback both by her words and the strange hopeful look she was giving him, Vulpes’ cold eyes squinted again, considering her. So, he had been right all the way: this was no Wasteland hero, but a child.

Not even a young woman.

Ignoring her question, he turned towards the wooden chair sitting next to the wall a few paces away, took it with one hand and placed it in front of her, sitting with the girl almost knee to knee.

“What are we going to do with you, Courier?” – he asked calmly, crossing his fingers under his chin while laying onwards on his elbows resting over his quadriceps – “You chase a man all over the Mojave to the very gates of Robert House while, unknowingly, managing to leave a trail both of glorified fame and an infamous streak for trouble… the Van Graffs’ should have seen it coming. I wasn’t pleased to discover that, with Gloria and Jean-Baptiste Cutting reduced to ashes as soon as they asked for one particular caravaneer’s head to the wrong person, our dealings with them had met an abrupt ending.”

Ah, yes. After playing guard a few nights for the Van Graffs and dealing with some petty works Gloria had come with, one day Jean-Baptiste had opened that mouth of his to express this worrying desire (thus, had to be interpreted as an order) to have a meeting with the previous owner of Cassidy Caravans.

Six already knew enough about the Van Graffs to know how they operated with the competition, so she had had Boone stationed on top of the building in front of the Silver Rush’s door to have a good shot angle, Cass, Raul and Arcade armed with their best energy guns behind while she, Rex, ED-E and Vero entered the local after Lily had dealt with Simon and his companion at the door. She had been carrying a loaded Mercenary’s Grenade Rifle over her hip… and the outcome, besides the projectile gun’s recoil throwing her backward, had been incredibly messy: Gloria’s guards had flown on bloody pieces while that beast of Jean-Baptiste, if injured by one crippled leg, had managed to roast ED-E’s circuitry, injure Rexie and break Vero’s Power Fist until Lily had beaten both his and his half-sibling’s craniums down to a pulp.

She regretted nothing.

“They wanted a friend of mine dead.” – she answered carefully instead, knowing she was treading water with this soft-spoken boy who talked like a thirty-year-old diplomat but disposed of his enemies like a butchering mad prophet – “I don’t know about the Legion, but I value friendship and loyalty. And not enough amounts of caps and threatening are going to change my ways.”

_That_ particular last sentence had sat immensely well with him. She had learned from Nipton what the Legion would not tolerate and she was using it shamelessly to appeal to his good graces. Whether she was being honest or not didn’t really matter; she had listened to him, she had learned the lesson he had taught there.

Clever, clever girl.

“Your interference, however, was balanced by the fact that you framed the Crimson Caravans’ manager, Alice McLafferty, for her dealings with the Van Graffs and, thus, their complot to assassinate that friend of yours.” – he explained as if this information was nothing to him, a free treat given for such a good behavior on her part – “Now, with McLafferty demoted and with Don Hostetler as the Head Manager of their business here, in the Mojave, we can keep better control over their dealings with the NCR.” – he stated, searching her face for signs that this information somehow troubled her. He had to be sure that she, at least, wasn’t an unspoken enemy of the Legion – “That pleased me. And, by pleasing me, you appeal to Caesar’s goodwill.”

Dropping her head to a side as if trying to decipher something about what he had just told her, the girl looked at him intently, searching his face the same way he had done with hers.

He was being sized, scrutinized under the big lens.

And her eyes told him that he wasn’t being regarded unkindly. Just carefully.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” – she questioned – “Why would you bother to contact me a second time? Is this about this morning, when the Lucky 38 opened its doors for me?”

Ah, so she was able to read between lines. Interesting.

“Among other things.” – he conceded – “But mostly for the sake of learning what is your posture towards the Legion.”

“Why do you care?” – the girl asked.

“Because, my dear Courier, by stepping into the Lucky 38, you have just sat at a table with bigger players whose motivations you can’t even begin to fathom.” – he explained quietly, voice smooth and even as his eyes buried further into hers – “Believe it or not, this is not just about a man who shoots a girl in the head, robs her and leaves her for dead until circumstances prove him wrong. Not anymore. Robert House has opened his door to you and I would like to know why.”

“He’s my employer. The hired the Mojave Express’ services to deliver him six parcels, and mine was the only one that did not reach its destination.”

She wasn’t lying, for he had already learned this much from his spy couriers.

“And what, pray tell, did that parcel of yours contained?”

Weighting her chances briefly, after a quick glance to his inquisitive blue eyes, Six concluded that lying to him wouldn’t do her any well. It was clear as the water (the non-irradiated stuff anyway) that he had a sharp mind as well as a sharp tongue. If he realized that she was being dishonest with him, perhaps she would discover just how sharp his hand could struck as well. His handiwork in Nipton wasn’t something to treat lightly.

In fact, she had this feeling that, despite having a perfectly civil conversation between the two of them right now and him having been nothing but polite with her, that demeanor could quickly shift into something unpleasant if she dared to underestimate him.

It wasn’t that she feared him, not really, not the way a sensible person in her situation should, but he had to be dealt with the utmost care if she wanted to remain on his good side.

And _she wanted_ to remain on his good side. Not because he was Legion, _ergo_ dangerous and, possibly, brainwashed and fanatic… but just because he was one of the few people she knew that was close her age.

It was an absurd notion, she realized, but this _Zorro Salvaje_ guy was the only currently available option of someone understanding what was like to be a brat amidst this stupid desert full of old cynic disenchanted farts.

She had already tried with others: Jerry the Punk, ex-wannabe Great Khan, was far more interested in composing emo poetry to express his insecurities and appeal to the Followers’ good hearts than being pals with her.

Alice Hostetler, daughter of the new Crimson Caravans’ Head Manager, had been more preoccupied with bitching about her parents while entertaining questionable companies than wanting to do anything to be friends with her.

Melissa Watkins, Brotherhood of Steel Apprentice, was a bitch. Simple and plain. She treated Vero so smugly that Six had disliked her at first sight. And that had been all. Nobody looked Vero over their shoulder, no-fucking-body.

And let’s not start with the Fiends. Sure thing the ninety percent of them were in-between the ages of thirteen and twenty-something… but they were so fucked up by their drug-abusing routines that it was impossible to make friends among them. Not that she could get near any of the kids without having to deal with their cries of needing so bad their next dose, but also having to pay attention to dress like a Great Khan while speaking with their leaders: Motor-Runner, who doesn’t look on kindly to a Khan who hasn’t business with them; Driver Nephi, who since she had brought on the topic of his ex-friend Bert Gunnarsson didn’t want to speak with her anymore; Violet, who was so high on Psycho sometimes one had to pay attention not to lose a limb around her and her dogs… and Cook-Cook, motherfucking rapist and also a child molester that each time he saw her he wanted to “speak” in private. Like hell she would, bitch.

So… that only left her with this weird albino (_that_ was the word. She had recalled it correctly, yay!) Legion boy.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t entertain the notion of crucifying her while _attempting_ to be friends with him… oh well, risky world, risky choices.

Going back to reality and recalling that he expected an answer, she complied.

“A Platinum Chip.” – he made a gesture to her to elaborate – “I don’t really know what it does _exactly_, but microchips are usually divided into three types: analog, digital and mixed signal.” – seeing him frown as if unaccustomed to hear such terminology, she added – “The digital type, due to the small size of their circuitry, allows high speed, low power dissipation and reduced manufacturing cost, so my guess is that this Platinum Chip wasn’t one of those. For what I’ve gathered, it was anything but cheap to make.”

Fascinating. Vulpes wasn’t familiarized with tech terminology, but he was a fast and a very willing learner when it came to useful knowledge. And this would categorize as such. He had always wanted to know more about machines and their inner structure despite what the Legion had taught him about rejecting technology and how the machines had orchestrated the current irradiated, post-apocalyptic landscape.

But, if anything, Vulpes had been always a restless mind who enjoyed finding answers to questions.

And this girl seemed happy to provide.

“What functions does a digital type of microchip has?” – he asked.

Momentarily disoriented by his sudden question, her prompt big toothy grin told him he had hit a topic she would love to discuss.

This wouldn’t be a boring, down-to-the-point conversation after all.

“It uses Boolean algebra, so they can process “one” and “zero” signals, which is basically machine language.” – she explained, rather excited that the words could come on a row to her, her blessed knowledge still intact despite everything – “Digital circuits are far better than analog ones when they deal with signal reading, thus, processing information. Digital are logic, analog are linear, you see? For example: those signals, if transmitted as a continuous audio with a sequence of 1s and 0s, can be reconstructed with a digital system without error providing that the noise picked up in transmission is not enough to prevent identification of the 1s and 0s. It’s easier to handle by the chip’s physical part by just adding more circuitry to deal with a bigger amount of binary digits should you wish more precise representation of a signal, resulting in an easily scalable system. Or, in case of computing-controlled digital systems, you can even just revise the software without changing the hardware at all. However, pure analog chips in information processing have been mostly replaced with digital chips, so they tend to be only power supplies and… does any of this make sense to you?”

Vulpes _actually_ blinked.

“Does that mean that analog microchips are an older but more complex type of microchip now meant only for supplying power to machines while the digital are the standard ones to deal with logic systems like the ones on RobCo terminals?” – he ventured, not entirely sure of where this conversation was going right now.

Her grin amplified.

“Yes!” – she exclaimed, a tad too exultant for his taste – “You’re fast! Not many would have got what I was getting at!”

Pride and arrogance weren’t among Legion values at all… but damn if he didn’t feel proud and arrogant right now.

“What about the third microchip type?” – he asked while masking efficiently his frivolous emotions to her. No need to look like a vain silly child right now – “The mixed-signal one?”

“Ah, yes, those microchips are sub-categorized as data acquisition and clock/timing ICs.”

“ICs?”

“Sorry, acronym for ‘Integrated Circuits’.”

“I see.”

She went on explaining that an analog-mixed-signal system-on-a-chip could be a combination of analog circuits, digital circuits, intrinsic mixed-signal circuits, and embedded software. She explained that those microchips were common in portable technologies, such as her Pip-Boy.

Next, she went on explaining what were software and hardware having, again, her Pip-Boy as an example. Windows, Linux, Android, and Macintosh with RobCo Operative Systems hybridizations came next.

“You know, one of these would come in handy in your line of work, wouldn’t it?” – she had said to him while pointing at her pre-War toy, still encircling her bony left forearm.

“Indeed.” – he had agreed, looking at her device with barely-masked avid eyes.

“Would you want one?”

His attention had been diverted so much from his original question about the Platinum Chip that this new bait had been hard to resist.

In fact, he hadn’t resisted it at all.

“Do you have a spare one?” – greed and curiosity had spoken for him.

And she had given him one mysterious smile. One mysterious smile that had intrigued him a great deal.

“Tell you what: help me to recover both the Platinum Chip and my old Pip-Boy from Benny, and you can have this one along with all the non-personal data I have on the Mojave. Posts, villages, Vaults, landmarks, routes… private information on many of its inhabitants…”

Like his namesaking animal, his ears had perked at hearing the words _‘private information’_.

Should he had been an actual fox, he would have licked his whiskers.

Up to that moment, as their conversation had kept on, she had been leaning forward to end mimicking his posture: elbows over quadriceps, head resting on top of her crossed fingers. Eyes lit with something akin to childish excitement.

They were so close that they could have understood each other by just whispering.

“Go on.” – he encouraged her, his blue eyes, unbeknownst to him, an identical mirror of her dark gleaming ones – “I’m listening.”

* * *

“Let’s rehearse this all over one more time.” – Vulpes monotone voice didn’t betray the nervousness he felt at prying on the enemy’s territory with just one active to backup him. An active that _wasn’t_ one of his men. An active that _wasn’t_ Legion. An active he wasn’t truly sure that could follow his orders to the letter - “Before they ask you, surrender your weapons to the Security with a smile. Always with a smile, yes?” – he pressed, needing to make sure that she would follow his instructions to the letter, no omissions, no fails – “You are a girl, and girls are expected to smile and beam for almost any interaction they happen to exchange with men.”

She hadn’t looked very happy as his explanation had went on the first time. Nor she was happier now with this quick review.

“That’s so sexist I can puke, right here, right now.” – she delivered in exchange, scrunching her nose in disgust – “I can’t believe society had evolved so little in the last two centuries. Like… people never learn.”

Vulpes armed himself with patience.

“Quite true, indeed, that people never learn.” – he conceded – “However, the moment your aim is to outwit others, your duty is to learn about their faults, thus willing to swallow your pride in order to obtain what you seek."

And he knew a thing or two about swallowing oneself pride. A bitter pill that didn't get any easier to shove down your throat time after time despite years passing and experience blooming, true, but a necessary one. One doesn't get very far in the Legion being prideful, that was for sure.

"It's not about pride, it's about self-respect." - she objected.

"Do you truly need others' approval to know your worth?"

"No, but I would like to be treated with the basics of decorum and respect. I think I’m not asking too much."

From the Strip? Her expectations about human decency here weren’t too much, they were, to put it simply, _completely ridiculous_.

"Think about it this way: isn’t it a great advantage, even if it is insulting to your gender and your ego, to know this much about how men perceive women and how you can use that information to your benefit?” – he reasoned – “Advantages like these are weaknesses that can be used by means of letting others think, based on your appearance and their prejudices, that you are a bumbling foolish doll while, in truth, you are anything but.” - she wasn’t stupid, that much he knew or she wouldn’t have been capable to deceive him with such elegance. Given that, he hoped his subliminal acknowledgment did not rub her the wrong way – “Let them underestimate you, let them attempt to manipulate you and, instead, exploit their weaknesses. That is the difference between an agent and a _good_ agent.”

She frowned with those bushy eyebrows of hers. Now that they were a bit trimmed, the change gave her a more sophisticated air that could at least pass for remotely feminine despite the heavy combat boots she still wore.

He had _tried_ to help make her look like an appetizing morsel because, if he knew something about the Chairmen, is that they were a bunch of guys well into their thirties that had money enough to hook up with girls half their ages. And the Courier Six, while not being overly feminine, still possessed that childlike innocence that many perverts found so alluring about teenagers.

He had never felt as embarrassed as when he had suggested to the girl to put on some makeup to make her look prettier and older (not that he had given her a slice of his thoughts, though) and she had replied… that she had never put on makeup before.

Ten minutes later both had been struggling to figure out how women makeup worked in the first place. Even in the Gomorrah, all hotels on the Strip usually had in each of their rented rooms the standard services and toiletries meant for making the client’s experience as comfortable as possible: spared nighties and pajamas for both men and women, towels, soaps, shampoo, a small freezer full of alcoholic beverages and… shaving razors for men as well as pre-War cosmetics for women.

They had started to sort up what they had at their disposal and which articles were meant for each part of the face: she had quickly identified a lipstick while he had spent more time than he had deemed comfortable sniffing colored powders and creams, trying to elucidate if they would turn her into a beauty or into a ghoul given the amount of dust and, he suspected, radiation said cosmetics probably contained after two hundred years.

First, she had washed thoroughly her face and hair; next, when Vulpes had figured out whose colors wouldn’t make her look like a cheap whore, he had asked for a handful of hairpins she had swiftly procured.

He had been no stylist and she had a hair so short and unruly that it was a miracle how the handful of hairpins still stood on their assigned places. The more she wore, the more amount of them they would have at their disposal should there be any closed doors or safes to crack open.

Next had been the brows.

She had started getting a feel of the tweezers and… after the second pulled hair that left a pearl of red after the missing root; she had exclaimed that she wasn’t going to continue with this anymore.

So he had given the tweezers a try as well on her. And it had been a miracle he had managed to get them more or less symmetric given how much she had squirmed and twisted under his hands, wailing this _“Owowowowowowowowowow!”_ thing that had nearly gotten on his nerves.

Then, the dreadful moment of the makeup had come up.

She had tried, he had to concede her that, and had done an excellent job on her cheeks… but she couldn’t for the life of her accentuate her lips or her eyes in a way that the resulting product didn’t look like a tearful granny after a tad too many vermouths.

So he, with ears burning with shame and discomfort, had given a try aided by his dexterous long fingers and a piece of toilet paper to erase and define edges.

And the final result hadn’t gone too bad, if he would admit that.

She looked… intriguing and almost cute. Almost.

Not bad for a pair of rookies in these… _embellishment_ thingy affairs.

“So…” – he heard her starting talking again – “… I gotta be Miss Smiling McSmiles, act a bit stupid… and what? Just to wait this Swank dude make his grand entrance or what?”

_That_ had been the riskier part of _his_ plan to ensure they could operate on Chairmen territory with _carte blanche_ if everything went accordingly.

“I already told you that this Swank person is Benny’s right-hand man. His cooperation would prove invaluable to make our little _tour_ inside The Tops far more pleasant and immensely quieter than in regular circumstances it should… providing that you manage to seize his attention and put him up-to-date with the news that his boss is a rat. Depending on whose wrath the man fears the most, he would side either with Benny or Mr. House… and I am willing to put both of my hands on the fire the balance will ultimately be inclined in favor of the true mind behind the Chairmen’s creation in the first place.” – he repeated patiently – “I only ask a little faith on my sources; that’s why I told you to wait until nighttime in order to localize him on the main counter, which is where he usually is on daily days.”

“And what makes you so sure he would notice me?” – she questioned.

“Unfortunately, my dear Courier, Swank’s work on the counter allows him to control the kind of people who enters and exits on a daily basis their casino, thus… having plenty of opportunities to capture whatever solitary prey that manages to catch his attentions.”

The girl’s eyes got so big they looked like they were going to roll out of her cranium’s sockets.

“The creep is a pervert?” – she asked, incredulous – “Ewwwww, gross.”

Her reaction didn’t make any sense to him, especially when her original plan back at the Gomorrah with her companions had been to “try her luck” with Benny in order to get him alone and vulnerable. Not that she had mentioned that tiny little bit to him, though. Interesting.

“Indeed.” – he intoned dispassionately instead.

“I don’t want to get pawed by a pervert.” – she declared.

“You won’t have to.”

“Are you going to be there while I try to appeal to this guy so he doesn’t get any ideas? If he sees me with company, he's not gonna be interested; you already said that much.”

“I will wait until the opportunity rises and, once you have stricken up on a conversation with him, I will reveal myself to back you up.”

Then, the girl fixed him with a very serious look.

“You promise?” – she asked, uncertainty tinting her sudden small voice.

Without being aware of it, he had just bored a tiny vulnerability gap in her.

But her vulnerability had backfired to him as well, for she had asked not only for his commitment to this cause… but also for his word.

And he wasn’t the kind of guy who, if being directly asked, made promises based on empty foundations. He could evade or dance around questions, true, but something told him that such a little trick wasn’t going to work with her.

She wasn’t one of his conquests, they barely knew each other and he had nothing on her to try seducing her, emotionally blackmail her or threaten to slap her on a collar… by Mars, where did all of that came from? Was it so overwhelming to assure a girl that she would only play the bait part and nothing more? Was it so _damn difficult_ to promise her that she would be safe from the hands of some pervert?

“I do.” – he finally answered after a long silence, his electric blue eyes fixing her as well, telling her how much trust he was placing on a stranger like her as well as she was – “I promise.”

He hadn’t wanted to promise anything. Promises were burdens, promises were contracts meant to be held on one’s honor.

And his word was one of the few things he truly could claim as entirely his, and nobody else’s.

For her own sake, he hoped she knew just what she had asked from him. For he intended to charge such a boon should she ended not being the asset Caesar needed. His favors and so, by extent, Caesar’s favors, didn’t come without a price.

However, despite his inner turmoil breeding dark thoughts coiling around his brain like venomous snakes, Vulpes experienced, confused, a slight odd endearing satisfaction the very moment he saw her smiling in thanks, her bony shoulders relaxing a little bit after the unsuspected tension she had built in such a short amount of time. In fact, the moment she turned around to face The Tops’ entrance, there was a new bounce in her step that hasn’t been present until now.

He followed her shortly after she had gotten into the casino and subjected himself to the usual search, handing out a common six-shooter he always had as a gun on display while he had, carefully tucked under his otherwise a bit wider-than-necessary jacket, two inches below his nape, a tiny M&A 9mm pistol. That, plus the thin razor he had inside his right shoe, was more than enough for him to operate on safe ground.

“Hey, hey, baby doll!” – he heard one of the security men saying – “Welcome to The Tops Hotel and Casino! I'm going to have to ask you to hand over any… _weapons_ you might be carrying.”

His voice had carried a suggestive undertone that made Vulpes, if briefly, roll his eyes. These dudes… hitting on a girl who could very well be their daughter. Pathetic.

In the Legion, luckily, these cases of dirty old men pursuing young girls were incredibly rare… but that could be due to the fact that ninety percent of the average legionary wouldn’t turn up their thirties. Mortality in the Legion, as much as the NCR propaganda wanted to sell it otherwise, was much higher on the men’s case than the women’s.

True that many women died at childbirth or prey to the occasional flu, but the men were subject to battlefield death and its many derived consequences: blood loss, concussions, infections, rad poisoning… and many of the traditional remedies tribal women cooked were mostly ineffective against severe cases of poisoning and helped next to nothing with the pain.

Painkillers, under Caesar’s rule, were strictly forbidden.

Vulpes understood the truth behind such an austere measure: the sooner Humankind stopped being dependant on pre-War drugs, the lesser the damage would turn once said drugs could not be found anymore.

But that didn’t prevent him from recalling how lucky he had been for not catching an infection on his back years ago when…

“Pervert!” – he heard the girl squeal indignantly as she slapped the security’s hand in a corny way – “Don’t get so touchy-touchy, daddykins! This sugar ain’t made for ya!”

To his credit, the Chairman looked truly embarrassed as she kept on about what a big complain sheet she was about to fill detailing just how _indecently_ handsy The Tops personnel was getting lately.

All of this ice-caked with a shrilly pitch-voice that was coupling wonderfully with hysteric-like fussing movements. Clever girl, putting on a show so the brute didn’t reach where her 9mm was secured inside one of her thighs with adhesive plaster, Vulpes’ work coupled with the First Aid Kit metal box on his room’s bathroom. Easy to break when the need would arise, easy to conceal keeping it on its place.

Then, as if on a cue, the background music shifted on a track rarely heard on this part of Nevada.

** _“Each morning a missionary advertise with neon sign_ **   
** _He tells the native population that civilization is fine_ **   
** _And three educated savages holler from a bamboo tree…”_ **

Vulpes found himself following the lyrics unconsciously while the casino muscle searched him down his legs after handing over his revolver. He loved when the music wasn’t that _‘Johnny Guitar’ _ballad that everyone seemed to like so much.

“Whoa, whoa whoa!” – another man’s voice irrupted into the scene, wearing a disarming smile as well as an indecently perfect Pompadour hairstyle that spoke of liters of solidified jelly combed by hands too used on idle things – “Quit fussing around, Dale, and pass over the baton with the young lady here, dig?” – he said while casually landing his big hand over one of the said little lady’s shoulder – “I’m takin’ the lead here, pal.” – he added, winking to the other man meanwhile he was already guiding the Courier to the right, towards the restaurant zone – “Apologies for how that played out, doll. I’m sure my pal there didn’t mean any offense, but security’s tight for a reason. Big Man over the 38’s orders.”

“And that’s the excuse you give all girls to get a feel on their panties?” – the Courier replied coolly.

She was still playing the offended customer but also the slightly charmed young thing the man thought she was.

**_“I see how people who are civilized bang you with automobiles…”_** – Danny Kaye kept singing all over the musical thread.

“Security, baby.” – he quipped amicably, his arm now rounding both her shoulders – “Can't make the bread if the bakers are full of lead, you dig it? Don't worry, you're safe as houses in here. This here's my joint.”

“And who, may I ask, is making me shining promises of safety and warm blankets here, handsome?”

By Mars, she was _good_.

**_“(You know you can get hurt that way Daniel?)”_** – replied one of the Andrews Sisters to Danny Keye’s observations.

The man was, literally, almost _beaming_ at her compliment.

“Baby, I'm the best thing that ever happened to you. Name's Swank.” – he introduced himself – “But you can call me whatever your heart’s content.”

Vulpes followed the pair to the restaurant and got himself a Nuka-Cherry at the bar. The more the sugar, the better.

Shame that they didn’t have Quantum. _“Twice the calories, twice the carbohydrates, twice the caffeine and twice the taste_”, said the front label. At least he would have had a little laugh when going to the bathroom next time.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Swank.” – the Courier said while she and her company sat at a table, feigning a timid approach that almost made Vulpes laugh. She was proving to be immensely entertaining, especially by the way she was single-handedly playing the Chairmen like fiddles – “But I thought it was Benny who ruled this place.”

“Benny oversees the business, sure, but I run The Tops day to day.” – the man assured, clearly trying to impress the young thing he thought he almost had on his lap – “I'm his right-hand guy, you dig?”

“I’d rather ‘dig’ a bit of time here, you know what I mean?” – she replied, her dark eyes wandering around nervously as if searching for something – “A girl’s not always able to treat herself with such views. _Luck_ has been a bitch to me lately.”

There, their signaled word. Vulpes made a calmed approach as _‘Civilization’_ lyrics kept rolling on their famous line.

** _“So, bongo, bongo, bongo…”_ **

Swank’s teeth flashed out like a wolf with the rabbit between sharpened maws.

“Doll, Lady Luck’s on your side this evening, I assure you.” – he leaned in conspiratorially as he took one of her little hands between his – “You stick with me, you won't have to work a day in your life. Don't fret about caps, you just sit there and look pretty for me.”

** _“… he don't wanna leave the Congo…”_ **

As Six’s cheeks started to paint with an angry shade of pink while her back got drenched in a cold sweat as the situation was escalating dangerously out of control, a pair of long pale hands landed on her shoulders as an also pale chin got on top of her hairdo.

“_Oh no, no, no, no, no._” – a calming, smooth voice sang-along with the background lyrics – “Just when I was starting to get myself worried.” – he pressed the half-filled Nuka-Cherry cold glass bottle against her flushed skin to help her calm down. He still could feel a bit of a tremor running on her naked bony shoulders – “May I tempt you with cherry flavor, Six?”

Grateful to have an excuse to pull her hand out of Swank’s reach, she accepted the soft drink with an enthusiastic – and rather relieved – _‘thank you!’_

Clearly annoyed by this sudden interruption but also eyeing the now quiet girl nursing her drink while leaning on the tall blonde fella behind her with suspicion, Swank gave him a cold stare.

“Can I help you, pal?” – he asked while clearly wanting to be anything but polite with this unwanted intruder.

However, after a silver engraved lighter was firmly put in front of him over the table, Swank’s demeanor visibly changed.

He would recognize that lighter anywhere.

“How…?” – he tried to start to be promptly interrupted by Vulpes’ soft and _very_ cold voice.

“I am afraid that this little lady here has a tale to tell about your boss and a certain Platinum Chip, Robert House's property, that he seems to have… _‘misplaced’_.”

“What?!” – Swank’s voice cracked as the blonde… no, fucking _white-haired_ stranger got a chair and sat beside a now very serious brunette.

“Six.” – Vulpes intoned dispassionately while, deep inside, enjoying himself a tad too much with this guy’s astonishment and discomfort. Served him well, the pervert – “Do enlighten the gentleman here about _digging_ from an early grave and two shots on the head by the hand of a man in a checkered suit.”

Swank’s skin got as pale as the albino stranger the moment she tucked out two hairpins and pulled up her short hair to reveal the two-bullet scarring on her scalp.

“Ring-a-ding now, _baby_?” – she asked gravely.

* * *

Inhaling deeply a most satisfactory drag of his already dying cigarette, Benny’s thoughts went back to the lame lighter he was forced to use now since that fucker Jessup and his pals got a grab on it. Idiotic finks, he hoped the NCR would blow their sorry arses to dust. Not that they had, as Great Khans (though he failed to see, knowing what was left of them, why they chose to still name themselves ‘great’ after Bitter Springs almost four years ago), much to call their own but miles of red _dust_ deep in the Red Canyon. Stupid fuckers.

He didn’t want to end like them, to retrace the Chairmen’s steps and becoming shameful Boot Riders again, chased down both by the NCR and Caesar’s Legion if they didn’t die at muties’ from Black Mountain or Fiends’ hands first. To return to the tribal lifestyle so full of dirt and grime, dust of the road sticking to the very core of your soul, embarrassing songs about honor and glory long-time forgotten, empty-bellied cramps, blister-filled feet, sunburned nose, arms and shoulders, scorching heat by the day, chilling lip-cutting wind by the night.

Really, what was the appeal, in all honesty?

With their silly and romanticized memories from their old days as Boot Riders, many of his brothers were positioning him in the difficult position to dispose of them one by one. Just like it had happened with their old singer, just like it had happened with Bingo.

Just like it would happen to Swank soon if he kept on saying that their ways were disgraceful. He couldn’t have those ideas spreading like gunpowder among his men. Not in his territory, not while he was in charge.

He had no qualms about how many corpses would be paving his road to power. He hadn’t cared when he had killed in fair combat Bingo to usurp his position, he hadn’t cared when he had poisoned the singer to quieten his treacherous voice, he hadn’t cared when he had overdosed that Great Khan junkie, he hadn’t cared when he had shot the other one.

And he, most importantly, hadn’t cared when those dark eyes pertaining to a little girl had been pleading him not to pull the trigger.

So, ultimately, he wouldn’t care in the slightest the very moment Maria would be pointing towards Robert House’s egg to silence his asshole dramatic grandiosity. Pretentious jerk, he would teach him who’s boss here, whose's cunning would prevail.

The very moment he would confront the Big Man, he would enumerate the full list of his crimes, a list that contained an innocent raven-haired little girl he had to shot in the face to get to this point.

Those were House’s crimes, not his.

And soon, soon…

Sighing while taking a last drag from his cigar, he carelessly threw the butt on the carpet floor, not giving a shit about what Swank would tell about leaving marks, stinking up the place and other blah blah blahs he didn’t give a molerat’s ass about. Business was his, dig? So what if he stank up the place? He had plenty of caps to pay some cleaners, or even a new set of carpets. Whatever.

He consulted the hour on his brand-new Pip-Boy, stirred on the chair he was sitting in, and put on one of the wireless earplugs tucked inside one tiny compartment embedded on the device. The signal read they were fully charged.

Reaching for the apparent gigantic database (a hundred Teras of capacity on the SD alone. These pre-War things were amazing) the previous owner had collected over the years, he got to the tree file system and tinkered a bit until he found the Movie Database.

The previous owner had an amazing way to distribute the films by sorting them either by alphabetical order (all the titles were correctly, capital letters and all, spelled off), year of release, genre, and even common actors and actresses, all dead people Benny didn’t have a clue who they were but, somehow, had made sense to the other person.

He had had almost five months to rummage through the archives this device had in storage and had found a gold mine in maps and lots of audiovisual culture that was thought long lost. Hell, he had discovered that music went much further than the pathetic set of twenty-something tracks Radio New Vegas drilled the Mojave with all the day.

He had even discovered new languages besides English, Spanish, and French that had been common on music on the pre-War Era. Dead languages he couldn’t name or even understand, but beautiful, exotic and intriguing to the ear nonetheless.

And books. Lots of digitalized books in various archive extensions that the Pip-Boy, mostly, could read.

And images. Images of such impressive pieces of art that had rendered him more than once speechless. Acquiring such a device with all this open-eye collection had been almost a religious experience to him. He hadn’t thought himself a sensitive man until he had seen Velazquez, Dali, Turner, Gentileschi, Rembrandt, Van Gogh and many others’ paintings and had felt so touched and amazed that he still mourned over how much had been lost to the war two hundred years prior.

He had chosen not to erase anything until Yes Man sorted out the value of such an enormous amount of data and how to release it safely to the public... IF he ever thought about sharing such a fountain of knowledge. Bet the NCR would pay their good caps for getting a handful of these files alone.

Finding a sudden peace by indulging himself in watching a bit of this ‘_The Man with the Golden Arm’ _movie, strangely starred by the known singer Frank Sinatra (**_“Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone… Without a dream in my heart…”_**), that depicted the singer portraying a junkie (though not like the Fiends, but much more sophisticated, which Benny enjoyed a lot, thinking that, even deep in shit, this Frankie Machine character knew _exactly_ how to swing till the last consequences) who gets clean while in prison, but struggles to stay that way in the outside world. Hard story for a hard world, painfully realistic, easy to relate with. Benny could watch it a million times again.

However, he got interrupted barely a handful minutes since the show had started by some distant laughing.

Benny tried to ignore it until it got too much and he, irritated, switched the video player off and got his earplug inside the embedded compartment again so he wouldn’t lose it. He got yet another cigar from his pack and lit it.

While he had his cigar on his mouth, giving languorous drags from time to time to it, he rummaged aimlessly through the many images the Pip-Boy had in storage until the laughs came again with force.

Frowning, he raised his eyes from the device screen to take a look at the noisy sources of his discomfort.

There was this couple, a girl and a boy. She was so small and he was so tall that his collarbone started where her hair ends ended.

Blonde him, brunette her, they were giggling like mad cats, arms intertwined, when she decided to take a jump and get her hand over her boyfriend’s head to remove his fedora from his head. Once she succeeded, she put on the brown(ish) hat that got a little too big on her head. Cute.

Benny caught himself smiling fondly on the apparent young love he was witnessing until the two lovebirds inched closer.

And he got thunderstruck the very moment they sat playfully at his table; him leaning over the wooden surface on his elbows like a vulture, piercing blue eyes gashing through waving locks of short nuclear white hair; her smoothing the skirt of her pretty flowery dress before sitting, combat boots swinging below the table, her face obscured by the too-big-for-her fedora.

Raising a dark eyebrow, Benny didn’t know what to make of these two, clearly too intoxicated to discern between clients, workers and the boss.

“Whassup, kiddies?” – he asked, clearly amused – “Well in your cups, the two of you, eh? Too much swinging in one night, I bet.”

“Oh, but the night has just begun.” – said the girl taking the oversized fedora out of her head, directing a very big-eyed black look towards the leader of the Chairmen, who watched in horror and disbelief how his most dreaded nightmare came to life before his eyes – “Hi, Benny. I believe we need to talk.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) - Sunny Smiles in the Spanish release was re-named "Sonrisas" and I thought it would be cool if Six sometimes stumbles over words and languages given her knowledge in them but also the mental chaos she has to deal with since the shooting.
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: Yeeep, here we go, lots of information and lots of Canon and Non-Canon references.  
First of all: when I refer to some of Benny's victims before the Courier, I am taking them out of the official comic release "Fallout: New Vegas - All Roads". Take a peek and you'll see where all the references came from.  
Yes, I love Vanilla Coca Cola (it's tasty, come on...) and I thought it would be fun to add such a flavor to the Nuka-Cola Company ^^ Though in all the Fallout franchise it is NEVER mentioned such a flavor. I know, I'm not 100% true to the original game. Sorry, creator's license ;)  
Yes, my Six had a Pip-Boy prior her "accident". Yes, fucking Benny took it, the bastard.  
I know that, perhaps, I got Vulpes a bit Out Of Character, but that's due to two important factors here:  
A) He's 20, so he's allowed to have a twenty-year-old thoughts and behavior sometimes.  
B) His presence in Fallout: New Vegas it's so scarce that you cannot REALLY form a solid opinion on his character other than he appears to be stoic most of the time (except when Caesar dies or you use Terrifying Presence Perk on him), he and Lanius share a mutual dislike, many of his colleagues seem to respect him and he has a VERY dangerous destructive streak towards populations he deems unfit for Legion's standards. Nothing more. Many of Vulpes' headcannons had been originated here, in the fanfiction fandom, so I would venture that I am not diverging from the original character as much as it seems. It's true that I want him not being purposefully toxic or destructive towards Six, but that doesn't mean that he's an angel. Because he isn't, you'll see ;)  
Again: what do you think? Your opinion is gold to me, promise :)  
BTW, I was in a hurry and I didn't say THANK YOU SO MUCH to those 6 people (oooh, Six is the number ;D) who left me Kudos. You guys made me happy ^^


	3. Lazarus

* * *

_“Hey, girl, what are you doing?”_

_The woman whose name smiled like the morning sun had been the one patching her up when those oversized lizards that were named ‘geckos’ had gotten a taste of her leg. She had cooked an itchy powder with plants over a camping bonfire that had been close to another camping, an old caravan, plenty rusty tin cans and many empty whiskey bottles gleaming amidst desert dust._

_“Picking up trash.” – she had answered, an old burlap cloth half-filled with crystal and metal receptacles over her bony shoulder – “I’ve done already the town’s ruined houses, so I’m clearing the area round the wells. I don’t like this much rubbish littering around.” – she explained – “Where I come from, having this level of filth invites sickness and trouble. Leave a population amidst garbage and there’s a good chance raiders might mistake the place for abandoned.”_

He_ had taught her that much. If there had been something remarkable about _the man_ that had been _his_ pragmatism, _his_ uncanny ability to see the bigger picture without neglect any detail. And she had been, willing or not, an adept disciple of _his_ methods, _his_ way of thinking, twisted and wrong as _the man himself_, but always camouflaged with apparent reason and good sense._

_And reason had been _his_ weapon of choice every time._

_The woman had given her a critical look after starting picking tin cans and bottles as well, her dog inclining its head sideways as if asking what the meaning of all of this was._

_“You know those might worth a handful of caps if you bring them to Chet, right?”_

_The friendly woman had cared for her, showing her nothing but kindness, asking her to stay in Goodsprings._

_She would help her to settle, she would help her to earn her bread, to get a comfortable place to stay…_

_But the woman who laughed warmly as the sun hadn’t known about _him_._

_Nor did the doctor, the bartender, the merchant and the old dynamite man who sat on the shaded porch, next to quiet, dead motorcycles._

_Nobody knew about _him_. Not even the old couple in Primm, who signed up contracts with many couriers and negotiated jobs that had _his_ signature. As long as the caps kept coming, the old couple wouldn’t ask any questions._

_Not even her new friends, allies that she had been picking like drops of water to calm her thirst for friendly company, knew anything about _him_._

_That suited her just fine, she supposed. Because, if they had known under _whose_ boot she had been kept down the sand all these years… maybe they would have resorted to violence. No matter _his_ NCR deals, no matter _his_ money, no matter _his_ smooth, shady charisma._

_Just as she was about to do if this bastard would not relinquish what he had stolen._

_After all, she had a job to complete._

* * *

An involuntarily shudder ran down Six’s spine as she took on the man, this man, who had been at the center of all the decisions she had taken all these long five months pursuing vanishing pieces of her already broken memories, like dry leaves made dust in the wind of one too many solitary evenings outdoors, counting the bullets on her belt, caps on her pockets and battery bars on the upper right corner of her new Pip-Boy’s screen running dangerously low as twelve hours of darkness would settle on the Mojave’s roof, lying in quiet waiting for the unbearable round of yet another twelve hours of scorching sun, blinding sands and hissing lizards that would charge back her device.

The months of uncertainty asking to every-damn-one who would listen, the weeks of frustration nursing gecko bites and running from raiders and junkies, the days of pseudo-madness drowning in seizing headaches, the hours of sadness, fear and loneliness unable to reach for those fragments of her mind that were gone… every second of it was counting now that she was in front of this robber.

This thief who had stolen her life.

_Look up here, man._ – her dark eyes demanded and pleaded at the same time, fixing the older man in his chair like the tiny bug she wished he was, singing inwards one of the songs, she suspected, that had been at some point her favorites – _I’ve got nothing left to lose._

She wished she had the courage to speak up, to make this man a bit smaller, a bit more inconsequential, but the robber’s lips were already moving.

“What in the goddamn...?” – he whispered, his tone dumbfounded, his eyes fearful, his cigar dropping from his lips towards his crotch in slow agony – “Fuck!” – he swore, getting out from his reverie to shake off the offending burning cylinder.

However, a 9mm cannon aimed at his balls persuaded him otherwise.

“_Ah ah ah._” – Vulpes’ calmed voice chided in a gentle, _downright chilling_ tone – “Do play nice, Mr. Chairman, and keep your hands where I can see them, far from that shining toy of yours that I’m sure you _don’t_ want to unsheathe from your jacket’s inner pocket. Not if you want to remain _pure_ and _intact_ throughout this conversation. Are we clear on this?” – flashing a smile full of teeth that did not reach his blue eyes, he nudged the other man under the table with one of his feet to remain exactly where he was, his right hand wielding the weapon coming to rest on top of checkered pants covering quadriceps as a reminder – “_Good_.” – he purred, watching the other swallow profusely as sweat began to collect on his tanned forehead – “Six?”

However, the moment her lips were opening, the robber was quicker again.

“Alright then, kiddies, alright.” – he said upholding his hands, voice down as if instead to calm a pair of young people he was trying to contain a pair of hungry deathclaws – “Let's keep this in the groove, hey? Smooth moves, like smooth little babies...”

A tiny fist dropped over the table, effectively silencing him.

“Shut up.” – the small girl, the very same small girl he had thought lying six-feet under dried soil five months ago, sitting before Benny hissed, pointing at him with one tiny index finger – “I’ve already had enough of you Chairmen guys and your cheap silly speech. _Dig_, asshole?”

“What…?” – oh, but the bastard’s tongue was loose, indeed – “Oh, Swank, you finky bastard...”

“I said shut up!” – Six hissed once more meanwhile her tiny left foot embedded in a not-so-tiny combat boot stomped over Benny’s toes, gaining a pained grunt from the guy – “Now, the Pip-Boy.” – she added while extending her right hand – “Not asking a second time before my friend here blows your balls off.” – she warned – “Over the table, nice and easy.”

Benny didn’t have to think twice before he was nervously working out the gauntlet’s clasps. Besides, Yes Man had already all the data copied, so he wasn’t really losing nothing more than the device itself.

The instant she got her hands on her old device she was trembling, big eyes full of unshed tears examining it with loving care. The scene reminded so much a child getting back her favorite toy that Benny almost felt ashamed of himself. Almost.

Blinking away her tears, she tinkered with it a bit, making sure that most of her databases (at least at first sight) were still there before unclasping her current device and promptly switching it with the other one.

“_Zorro._” – she said after accommodating her old device – “Please, gimme your left arm.”

Although grateful that she had remembered to not to blow his cover, he found a bit odd her calling him in such a way _yet again_. Not that he was complaining, though.

Without taking his eyes and the cannon of his gun from the other man, Vulpes did as requested, finding at first a bit _peculiar_ the new weight and tightness around his forearm, wrist and knuckles, as she secured on, first the gauntlet, then the straps, stretching in and out his fingers to adapt to the new sensation.

Benny had watched the exchange without uttering a word, realizing now that she had _yet another_ Pip-Boy on her power (this kid… where in the Hell did she got them so easily?!), still too shocked to process anything other than the present circumstance until she spoke again.

“Now, gimme the Platinum Chip and I might let you ran from Vegas with your tail between your legs. Not offering a second time.”

“Would you seriously think I can just do that and expect Screen Man on the Shinning Tower to forgive and forget, babe? There's a lot of angles to this caper - complexities aplenty, and I’ve gone too far on his employment sheet to give in now.” – he replied, feeling unconsciously for his cigar pack on his jacket until the 9mm cannon dug further on his crotch. Blasted brat, not even allowed a damned cigarette to steady his nerves, shit – “Besides… you don't wanna do that, baby, not without hearing what I got to say first.”

“House is pertinently informed of you double-crossing him, idiot.” – Six spat – “Who do you think sent me here in the first place? I’ve got _carte blanche_ to blow off your imbecilic brains just the way you did to me if I feel so inclined… but let’s say I’m humoring you, just for the shit and giggles, so you better give me a reason – a damn GOOD ONE - why I shouldn’t kill you. Right here, right now.”

Vulpes raised a brow, eyeing her briefly with electric blue curiosity. Where was this conversation going _exactly_? Weren’t they going to kill him in House’s name to make an example of him? Wasn’t that the original plan?

Benny must have thought the same, for his face was quite the poem.

“You want a reason, babe?” – he asked, leaning over the table, keeping his voice low while not taking his sight from the albino weirdo – “How about _four_?” – he continued, hinting with his dark brown eyes behind him, where four gangster-like guys aligned themselves against the opposite wall, facing Benny while some were smoking, some were picking their nails – “They're called bodyguards, and no matter what good ol’ Swank may have promised you two, kiddies, but they are loyal. Their paychecks assure me that much. Oh, and every one of them is packing. Me too, so… baby, that makes five.”

Despite his bluff, she seemed unfazed.

“V.A.T.S., Benny, ring-a-ding?” – she retorted, pointing with her index at both Pip-Boys in hers and Vulpes’ left arms – “I bet the both of us can kill you and your gorillas shooting your faces off in less than ten seconds. Pre-War military technology, _babe_.” – she accentuated with a grimace, clearly despising the stupid adjectives the man was using with her.

Vulpes eyes were shifting from one another, clearly fascinated with the bluff conversation the man and the girl were having. They were gambling a dangerous game and, despite not wanting to get involved in a shooting with four armed men, he found himself enjoying immensely this power-play even if he was having right now a passive role on it.

The girl was making the night more and more interesting.

“You’ve just given the device to him.” – the man tried once more, sounding astonishing calm despite his current predicament. Vulpes knew a snake when he saw one, and a wise fox is a fox that doesn’t underestimate a sliding, venomous reptile – “Bet myself that he isn’t familiar with the use of V.A.T.S. Imma right, dollface?”

Uh, oh.

“You willing to take the risk with your balls on the platter, Ben-Man?” – she replied, her eyes squinting – “Maybe you’re right and there’s just the two of us against four, but we are pretty fast, we have distance and covering enough and, before they can even start shooting, your Pee-Wee is gonna fly _bloody_ and high and mighty into the sky anyway.”

Vulpes almost wanted to laugh; this was getting so ridiculously hilarious.

“Really, baby?” – Benny asked, his shirt and jacket’s collar sodden with cold sweat, not happy being described so graphically with such _glee_ how he was going to get turned a eunuch no matter what – “Let’s be honest for a second and share a momentary olive branch: you didn't come here for vengeance. You came to get clued in.”

Six’s nostrils flared. She was already sick of dancing in circles with this murdering son of a bitch.

“To get clued in about talking me to death?” – she asked, clicking her tongue cheekily – “Why, Benny, if that’s your intention, maybe you’ll actually end with a success this time. And without even having to display that shitty aim of yours!”

Benny’s eyes were momentarily reduced to thin slits. He was getting annoyed with the gal’s unwavering stubbornness. She wasn’t buying any of him and his little charade. She was way too damn smart for her own good.

“Listen, honey baby.” – he tried one last time – “I know, you figure me for a creep. And you done me a solid already, just by not shooting at me…”

“Yet.” – Six warned.

“… Yet.” – Benny conceded – “But let cooler heads prevail, hey? No need for violence. I know, I made a bad first impression. You got every reason to think I'm the least trustworthy bastard in the entire Strip... But baby, this is an 18 karat opportunity!”

Vulpes waited for the agreed signal to shoot off this despicable human being’s private parts. He was appealing at her curiosity to get off this situation unscathed and, even if he truly had something juicy enough to make any sense out of this, they didn’t need him. Swank would allow the both of them access to the entire building and they had all the night to search it thoroughly.

But said signal never came.

“What are you talking about?” – Six asked instead after a full minute of silence.

“You see, I've got the Chip, but to watch this shin-dig through to the end? I'm gonna need help.” – the Chairman said with a matter-of-factly tone – “And, hello! Who shows up but you?” – then, he flashed a disarming smile – “It can't be a coincidence, baby. You and me were meant to work together.”

The _nerve_ of the guy!

“Says the man who shoots his allegedly _associate_ in the head.” – interjected Vulpes suddenly, not willing to hear a single buttered up word out of this snake’s lips – “Enough. I’m tired of this game. Either you explain to her why the Platinum Chip is so important to House and you RIGHT NOW… or I’m pulling the trigger. You have exactly ten seconds that start counting NOW. One.”

“Whoa, whoa!” – exclaimed the man with all color drained from his face – “Listen, pal…”

“Two.”

“We simply cannot…”

“Three.”

“… Discuss things like these in here…”

“_Nine._” – purred Vulpes, enjoying the look of unadulterated terror in Benny’s eyes, who watched himself being swallowed into those two blue pools of gluttonous, sadistic enjoyment.

“Okay, okay, OKAY! I yield! You win, babe, you win!” – Benny squeaked, his low voice thin and high-pitched, rivers of cold sweat taking all over his now-cadaveric face – “The Chip it's some kind of data storage device, dig? So it's the data on the Chip that's platinum, not the Chip itself. Trouble is, the Chip don't fit any computer I've found. Must require special hardware. A _customized_ one.”

Six and Vulpes exchanged a _very_ meaningful look.

“And?” – pressed the girl.

Momentarily relieved that it was again the gal and not the albino psycho who was doing the talking now, Benny continued with a much more confident pace.

“Baby, this is not the place to keep talking about that!” – he exclaimed, his voice a mere whisper – “What say you and me cash out, go somewheres more private-like? Any more questions you got, I'll answer.”

Six leaned over the table, her big eyes hard.

“Two conditions.” – she dictated – “Lose the bodyguards, and I’m going with you now…”

“Sure thing, darling, sure…”

“… And _Zorro_ here’s coming with us as well.”

To his credit, Vulpes accompanied her words with a sickly sweet smile that told the other man his not-so-subtle manipulation hadn’t worked.

“C’mon, Sugar Plum.” – the man replied with his most charming voice – “If I have to lay off all my security, you can do the same as a gesture of goodwill…”

“Why, that is an excellent idea, Mr. Chairman!” – Vulpes replied softly, devious merriment still playing behind his pupils – “Let’s take your beautiful golden toy out of the equation, shall we? Oh, and also the automatic switchblade you are hiding on the left sleeve of your jacket.” – watching the man going pale again, he added – “Without the Pip-Boy’s gauntlet? Easy to discern your null abilities to conceal a weapon.”

“We’ve got a deal, Ben-Man?” – pressed Six, knowing they had won already.

Benny let out a heavy sigh. This girl was a tough cookie.

“If that's what it takes to win your trust, that's what it takes.” – he acquiesced – “Just… would your boyfriend here be so kind leaving his gun behind too? I’ve got plenty to lose here and I’d say it’s a reasonable enough petition, babe.”

Six’s cheeks and nose got at least three shades pink before answering.

“You first.” – she finally agreed – “Over the table, no funny tricks.”

The moment Benny’s 9mm silver and golden gun, Maria, got over the table, Six automatically proceeded to empty the gun’s magazine while the Chairman got his switchblade folded in front of Vulpes’ incisive stare.

The 9mm bullets got discarded on the floor.

“And now get up, slowly.” – instructed the legionary with an oily quality on his voice that got Benny momentarily nauseous – “Don’t try to run away if you don’t want a hole in your knee… that is a good Chairman. _Excellent_.” – he mockingly complimented after the man did as told – “Now you are going to turn around and you are not going to move an inch before you hear the safe mechanism of my gun being put on.”

The Chairman leader trembled a bit despite himself, awaiting impatiently to hear either the goddamned click or nothing at all anymore as his head would explode messily all over the floor coverings. It would serve Swank damn well to have to deal with blood and grey matter staining his _fucking beloved_ carpets, the stupid traitorous fink.

However, the heavenly, life’s-been-spared click finally came accompanied by a soft metallic clank over the wooden table.

“Follow me.” – Benny simply said, taking their silence as a clue to start walking.

* * *

If there was something Craig Boone loathed more than Caesar’s Legion and the man himself… that was _inaction_.

“What are we gonna do, Arcade?! We’ve searched thoroughly the entire casino for her! They’ve even dumped us after Cass’ attempt to force herself on the lower levels!”

_Inaction_ in the face of _need_.

“I don’t know, Veronica, I just don’t know!” – exclaimed the Follower’s doctor, making a full showdown of mad fussing with both his hands – “I don’t even know why you guys keep asking _me_, of all people, about what to do! I am not _her_, okay?! I don’t have much of a strategy mind, alright! I cannot think with a cold head when _she’s_ missing!”

_Inaction_ when a good person’s life is in _danger_.

“F’ck dis.” – Cass growled, starting to feel how shitty it was to stay sober _and_ awake – “We speak wi’tha Victor tin-can fella so ‘e can tell House we need ‘is pull on thos’ Omertas thugs, I say. N’body would argue Big Boss’ orders ‘n we can search for ‘er on tha lower l’vels. They don’t wanna priers for a reason, I tell ya.”

It wasn’t even a half-bad plan… but it was a plan that needed an amount of time and words Craig wasn’t planning to waste sitting on his butt on this dead building, no matter how comfortable the beds and sofas were in here.

So, without sparing the other three arguing adults a single word, he got up and started to walk towards the main bedroom.

“Boone, where are you going now?”

Ignoring the Brotherhood Scribe’s calls, he entered the other room, where he found Lily sitting over the queen-size bed knitting something with those big bluish hands of hers. Apparently, being big as a deathclaw and having hands that could envelop Craig’s own head from chin to top had nothing to do with being dexterous with big metallic needles.

**“Looking for something, sweetie?”** – she boomed. Thankfully, Craig was already used to the Nightkin’s loud voice tone.

“Did Six left any used clothes of hers over here?” – he asked, knelt over a trunk, rummaging over its contents.

**“Oh, I have left all of our dirty laundry on that metallic basket, over there, dear.”** – she answered, not lifting her sight from her current task – **“I’m glad the kind cute little girl left wearing that pretty dress, though. Leo and I agree that the poor thing is young and too insecure about her appearance.”**

Craig blinked behind his dark sunglasses, unsure about what to do with this kind of information the supermutant was giving him, still a bit squeaky around this “Leo” issue each time she mentioned it, to immediately direct his steps towards the mentioned “basket”: an old paper bin.

Once he found what he was looking for, he went towards the kitchen, where next to the two fridges he found Raul tinkering with a dismantled ED-E over one of the workbenches near the entrance.

“Raul, where’s Rex?” – the ex-1st Recon demanded.

The ghoul mechanic spared Craig a bored long look before resuming his work.

“I left the pup resting over the floor cushions on the recreational area, _Señor_ Boone.” – he replied – “Poor thing was sore after this old man went unbending his mechanical legs and rewiring the artificial nerve connections to his biostructure.” – he went to a halt again, as if in an afterthought – “He would appreciate if you would bring him some water, though. _Consejo de amigo_.” **_(1)_**

Nodding in thanks, Boone got a bowl from one of the kitchen’s shelves, filled it with non-irradiated water from the tap, thank God these were still working, and went to the recreational area, catching half-way the attention of the other three who had been observing him with a silent fascination as he went on his plan.

He found the dog napping over the cushions like the king his name said he was.

“Hey, buddy.” – he whispered – “Brought you some drink.”

The animal’s pointed ears had risen immediately he had spoken and took avidly the offering as he got on his fours.

Craig waited until he was sated and he spoke once more, earning the dog’s full attention. Rex was keen on his and Six’s voices for some reason.

“I need you to sniff something.” – he said, pulling the cloth near the animal’s snout – “Can you identify it?”

After a brief whiff, Rex barked happily.

“Yes, it’s from the girlie’s.” – Craig answered, relieved that the pup could still smell even with the brain damage and all – “I need you to find her, think you can do that?”

Panting excitedly, Rex went on sniffing the floor, first doubting between the master bedroom and the elevator, then shaking his tail opting for the second.

“He’s got Six’s trail!” – Arcade exclaimed once he saw the dog panting before the elevator’s door, catching up with Boone – “Victor, we need to get to the Casino Floor, please!” – he blurted out towards the immobile securitron.

_“Can do, pardner!”_ – the cheery cowboy AI exclaimed, pushing the flickering button – _“All aboard!”_

Veronica turned around and made horn with her hands.

“Lily!” – she called, knowing the old granny had hearing problems sometimes – “You up to some kidnappers’ hunting?!”

**“Who’s been kidnapped, Becky dear?”** – the Nightkin answered from the main room’s doorway, her gigantic Vertibird Blade already strapped on her back.

Veronica smiled sadly, knowing full well how Lily’s mental illness affected not only her memory span, a thing she sadly had in common with Six, but also how she perceived people. Becky had been the name of her missing granddaughter.

“Six, granny, it’s Six!” – she informed, making signals with her hands for the supermutant to follow – “My friend, cute small brunette! Don’t you remember her?”

**“Oh!”** – Lily exclaimed while adjusting her monstrous dimensions to the tiny quadrangle already filled with four people and a dog – **“The sweet little girl! Isn’t her mother taking care of her?”**

Veronica laughed as Lily’s big arms scoped up her and Rex so all of them could fit more or less.

“No, granny.” – she denied, being the one to push the button going down – “She’s disappeared and I’m really worried about what could happen to her.”

**“Awwwww, no worries, dearie. Grandma’s sure we will find your little friend soon, you’ll see.”**

Rex punctuated her words with an enthusiastic bark before the elevator’s doors closed.

“I’m gonna share ‘levator with Lily nevermore…” – grumbled Cass’ voice while she was sandwiched between one of the quadrangle’s walls and the Nightkin’s bum.

Once the machine dinged and got the ragtag group floors below, Raul was still quietly sitting before the workbench, having some Sunset Sarsaparilla to calm down both his sweet tooth… and his nerves.

He wished with all his heart that they would find Boss girl before something bad would happen to her.

“That, providing that _la dulce abuelita gigantesca_ **_(2) _**doesn’t suffocate her with one of her bone-crushing bear hugs the moment they find her.” – he huffed, cantankerous till the end. Better cantankerous than the teary feeble old man he knew he truly was – “Meh.”

* * *

Six’s pulse had started trembling as they had gotten inside the elevator, Benny pushing the button towards the fifteenth floor. Vulpes was very aware of this, and the moment they had gotten behind Benny’s back as the man had started to throw inane comments to the air, showing his much nervousness, the legionary had directed a sideways look to his companion.

And he was astonished when he had found Six’s murdering glare directed towards Benny’s nape as she was unsheathing a tiny switchblade from the depths of her Pip-Boy gauntlet.

So it had been her plan _all this time_ murdering the bastard. Vulpes couldn’t blame her; after the man’s display, it was clear that he showed no signs of remorse towards what he had done to her, probably the only viable excuse that would have redeemed him in her eyes.

However, though first impressed for not having noticed her hiding such a weapon on her person even when the Pip-Boys switching had given rise, then concerned by her trembling pulse as she was preparing herself to give the _coup de grace_ to the snake giving them his back, Vulpes' hand went instinctively to hers and wrapped with his long fingers her own circling the blade.

A violent tremor coursed all over her arm and her eyes searched his' for a moment, clearly asking why.

He delivered nothing but a warning gaze as the elevator reached its destination.

With a ding, the mechanical doors slid to both sides and, following Benny’s steps towards the desired room, without releasing her hand Vulpes pointed with his eyes the two armed men patrolling the corridors.

Understanding what he had tried to tell her, Six sheathed her weapon again and, before Vulpes’ fingers left her own, she gave them a gentle squeeze.

Gifting her with a most unreadable expression as he retired his hand wordlessly, Six and Vulpes entered after the leader Chairman the spacious room he had unlocked with a key.

Benny was still trying to engage in an inane conversation about how suffocating this night felt. Next, he offered the silent duo a drink.

“You’ve got Vanilla Nuka-Cola?” – Six asked, dazzled by the cleanliness and luxury of the huge suite where there were two pool tables filled with the whole set of colorful balls contained inside a wooden triangle with their due poles in pristine condition sitting by their sides, a double coffee table surrounded by couches on the opposite side of the room invited to relaxation while a bar with six impeccable stools sat in front of the pool tables, meticulously arranged with eye-catching shiny bottles containing red, black, amber and even blue and violet liquids.

Benny raised a brow, guiding them towards the wooden bar.

“Does such a flavor even exist, babe?” – he asked, clearly amused.

Six’s momentarily hopeful look dissolved into resignation.

“It did.” – she mumbled sadly – “Once.”

Scanning the room at high-speed in search of cameras, peep-holes that could be used as gun holes and exits, the Frumentarius rounded the bar the moment Benny did, not willing to allow the bastard being left with his own devices behind a piece of furniture that could possibly contain a hidden gun.

“There’s Quantum.” – he observed as he directed a quick glance towards the girl.

She smiled; sitting on one of the bar stools, briefly indicating with her eyes her leg with the hidden 9mm pistol. So she was controlling Benny’s moves too. Good.

“Quantum it is.” – she acquiesced, dropping an elbow over the counter, directing a cold glare to Benny – “If you would be so _kind_.”

Benny chuckled nervously, preparing the drinks as he eyed with caution the goddamned blue-eyed psycho who wasn’t cutting him any slack, making his plan a tad more difficult than he had originally devised.

Once everyone got their drinks, Bourbon for Benny and Nuka-Cola Quantum for the two youngsters after Six’s rather eloquent _“I’m fucking seventeen, so I am not supposed to drink alcohol, asshole”, _a tense silence fell upon the trio.

“Can I ask you something, Sugar Plum?” – Benny was the first to break the ice.

Six sipped on her glowing soft drink with delectation before answering.

“Go on.”

“How is it that you're still living?”

“A securitron dug me up and a doc in Goodsprings did the rest.”

Benny almost choked on his drink, clearly dismayed.

“So… House was on to me from word _Go_?” – it was clear that he hadn’t digested the notion of House being almost omnipresent despite all these years working for him – “And I thought this was all your doing. I thought I was being so clever...” – another swing to his beverage and he got bolder - “Once you were vertical, how'd you track me down?”

Vulpes could tell that his way to put her near-death experience didn’t sit well on her graces if her brief murdering stare was any indication.

“You left quite a trail, idiot.” – she answered, shoving the engraved lighter and a handful of cigar butts she had kept inside one of her dress’ pockets over the counter – “You might consider quitting.”

Benny looked appalled.

“Look at me, a big-leaguer or so I claim, making all the mistakes of an original loser...”

“Quit your whining and start talking already, Benny.” – Six cut him mid-sentence – “You have wasted enough of mine and _Zorro’s_ time dancing around the Platinum Chip subject.”

While nursing his drink, Benny started to feel for something behind the counter, angling himself in a way that the albino freak wouldn’t see or suspect anything.

“Alright, honey baby.” – he answered – “Which way is the wind gonna blow?”

“Depending on your answers, we’ll see if you’ll live through this night.”

“Ask away then, precious.” – shit, the psycho was getting suspicious if his squinting was any forewarning.

“What does the Chip do?” – Six inquired – “And don’t bother try selling me the cheap _‘Dunno baby’_ crap of an excuse or I am gonna be _very_ mad at you.”

Benny was hyperventilating again. Fuck, where it had been the last time…?

“It has something to do with the securitrons, I know that much. Upgrades their hitting power, gives 'em heft.” – he explained, finally hitting where he was aiming – “Might be slightly useful, if you're looking to defend the Strip from Caesar's Legion or the NCR. Or maybe both…?” – however, as his fingers were violently pried from their position, the psycho twisted his hand and knocked him over the carpeted floor while a firm shoe dug on his back – “The fuck…?!”

Not moving his foot where he had put it, Vulpes’ fingers felt around the spot he had caught the snake raking over until he found it.

“A calling button.” – he informed dispassionately to a now standing up Six, her hand already halfway to her hidden pistol – “This _cur_ has called his bodyguards.”

Benny squirmed under his shoe, his fevered eyes catching a silver glimpse of something from the last party thrown there.

Vulpes was still talking.

“It would be safer if we just dispos… ARGH!”

His sudden outburst coupled with his horrified frozen expression while he looked down his leg quickly informed Six that she should act.

When Benny managed to bring down Vulpes while wielding an ice pick on his raised left hand, Six entered on V.A.T.S. Mode with a twist of her wrist.

As the time got slower inside the action capabilities and reflexes of her brain, giving her a natural overdose of adrenaline, she aimed with her 9mm at Benny’s raised arm twice, getting an estimation of eighty-three-success percentage.

She pulled the trigger.

Two red chunks of bloodied flesh and bone fled in the air along with the ice pick after the second bullet abandoned its magazine, the first one missed and firmly embedded in the opposite wall.

Benny’s cry was deafening the moment he got up, jumped over the counter with impressive agility and went on a mad dash for the room’s main door, leaving a trail of red droplets behind.

Six’s next three bullets missed their target as she wasn’t a great shot outside V.A.T.S. Next thing she knew it was closed doors in front of her nose plus the sound of the key turning twice from the other side.

Directing an angry roar before kicking on the door with no avail, Six’s attention got to a near table with two cushioned chairs. She quickly picked one and, with no small effort on her part, she inserted its backrest underneath both doorknobs to buy them some time. Then she went behind the bar to only find a trembling, hyperventilating Vulpes with a frightening double syringe of what looked like Psychojet embedded on his right twin muscle.

“Oh, shit!” – she exclaimed, kneeling down to his visual height to extricate the dangerous chem from his leg and throw it as far as possible – “Shit, shit, shit!”

A sudden violent rapping at the door informed them that the bodyguards were on the other side already.

“Oh, damn.” – she cursed, searching for a bottle of water so he wouldn’t pass out from dehydration – “Drink this. Oh, please, drink this.”

Vulpes eyes rolled up as he started to get convulsions, a thin trail of red escaping one of his nostrils.

Six forced the water down his gullet the best she could while trying not to get too jumpy at the insistent rapping at the door.

Loosening his necktie, she partially unbuttoned his shirt so he could get oxygen while putting his right arm over her shoulders, nudging him to stand up so they could reach the next door and holed up themselves behind it.

However, a hand cold as ice got around her throat, not aiming to choke her but instead to take her proximity away from him.

“_No… no…_” – he hissed with a raspy voice, his native Spanish pronunciation totally got her low-guarded – “_No me… toques…_”**_(3)_**

The obstacle that had presented the cushioned chair was no more and the door got violently open.

Six’s eyes flooded with liquid fear as the cold hand swept from her neck down her collarbone, shoulder, and arm while a burst of frightening high-pitched laughter exploded from the young man’s lips.

A full round of bullets rained wooden splinters around them.

“_Dame…_” – he said in-between laughs, his gums and teeth partially stained with his own blood – “_Tu… pistola…_”**_(4)_**

She stared at his eyes, his otherwise pretty blue eyes now blood-injected and with their pupils so dilated, she wasn’t able to see their true color. The Psychojet fully kicking into his system.

After a second rain of splinters, she gave him the gun.

But she hadn’t been prepared for what followed next.

Disregarding any self-preservation sense he could have ingrained in his instinct, Vulpes turned around while standing up and started to deliver bullets while cackling madly.

Before she could stop him, he jumped over the ruined counter and plunged himself towards a lying figure trying to drag itself amidst a pool of blood and other three bodies with their faces disfigured by the bullets. The moment Six dared to poke out her head off the counter, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her: with both his teeth and nails sinking on the dying man’s face like some feral canine, Vulpes was extending the man’s agony digging with both thumbs his closed eyes.

The man howled terribly until the Frumentarius’ thumbs managed to slice through his eye sockets, effectively killing him in the most gruesome way Six had ever thought possible.

Trembling, the girl got slowly around the ruined bar, inching towards the door, not willing to go through him and his bloodbath.

However, as she was getting closer to the door, a sudden white noise came from the intercom that was left next to the main entrance.

** _“The cleaners will knock twice. Make sure they're thorough.”_ **

It was Benny’s voice.

Dropping the lifeless body between his hands, Vulpes directed a crazed look to the offending device.

“_¡¡ERES HOMBRE MUERTO!!_” – he yelled, starting to laugh like a hyena again. **_(5)_**

There was a horrified gasp on the other side of the intercom.

** _“What the FUCK…?!”_ **

After that, a grating noise and the communication was over.

Sweating profusely, Six placed both her palms against the wooden surface, but the moment the door creaked behind her as she attempted to push it silently, the crouched legionary’s head turned in an anatomically awkward position and launched himself over her.

She couldn’t manage to scream the moment he shoved both of them inside the new room, blocking the door with the golden latch it had.

Getting his hands at both sides of her cranium, he forced her to face him.

_“Nunca…”_ – he hissed again, smearing red against her cheeks and temples; his chin, lips and teeth gleaming crimson – _“Se te ocurra… volver a tocarme… __No sin… mi permiso… ¿Entiendes…?” **(6)**_

He wasn’t hurting her but his voice carried a warning she understood immediately. He could be drugged with one of the most powerful chem-mixes ever invented… but his words, if altered, spoke of a truth she couldn’t argue. She had offended him.

So she nodded silently.

As her nodding registered inside his brains, he also nodded, frighteningly resembling a broken doll, while his unfocused eyes tried to search for something in the new room.

Six’s senses were not so impaired as his, so when she heard feminine screams on the bar room calling for help, she knew the two of them didn’t have much time; so she disentangled from his grasp and tried to move one of the two available armchairs in the small living room connected by a corridor with other rooms she hadn’t the time to check on.

“H-help me to move this thing.” – she panted, cursing inwardly her toothpick-like arms and her laughable strength – “What are you doing?”

Ignoring her, Vulpes’ chain of thought was running in another entirely kind of frequency as he passed through the living room towards a kitchen, then a bedroom, searching for something on the walls.

Six went after him as soon as the resistance the tiny latch on the living room’s door was forced, first normally, then violently.

She managed to latch all the doors between them and their pursuers, first the bedroom, then its bathroom, to find that Vulpes had climbed on the white sink of this last compartment and had dismantled its ventilation grill.

It was an easy task, being tall and agile as a salamander, for him to jump on the rectangular ventilation hole and disappear from sight crawling his way inside.

Six followed after him, climbing on the sink as well… but she wasn’t as tall and agile as he was.

The moment she heard the bedroom door being violently opened, she started to beg.

“_Zorro_, help me climb!” – she exclaimed, looking at the bathroom’s door with fear – “Please, help me!” – terrified, she changed tactics - “_¡Ayúdame, por favor, ayúdame a subir!_”**_(7)_**

Luckily, seconds after the door started to being forced as well, a cold pair of slender arms descended upon hers and, grabbing them by the elbows, hoisted her up inside.

Meeting face to face with the dilated pupils of her still drugged savior as he crawled his way backwards to allow her to proceed, Six followed his deranged visage towards an intersection where he, being careful to not get injured by a working fan, switched again his position and went forward the narrow dusty passage.

The unmistakable sound of shooting and bullets ricocheting towards the start of the ventilation duct informed them that their pursuers knew where they had escaped.

Luckily for Six and Vulpes, the muscle of any casino were older men far more shoulder-broaded and muscled than the two of them… and Vulpes fit on the hole pretty too tight; so they weren’t likely going to follow them inside, bless being young and underweight for once.

It was a long half an hour they spent inside those ventilation ducts, crawling in slow, quiet agony as they listened the entire casino being put upside down to find them, closing possible exits to lower levels.

The clear option had been going upwards.

So, when Vulpes found the trail of fresh air coming from above, he managed to climb himself outdoors through a ventilation hood. He helped the girl getting outside as well before collapsing on the plain granite ground of the rooftop.

Trembling both from the exertion and chilly air drawing goosebumps along her sensitive skin, Six approached Vulpes cautiously and got his sweaty white waves out of his forehead the moment he got on fours and started throwing up.

“_No… no…_” – he hissed as she held him, avoiding him going down on his own vomit while rubbing both his arms in an attempt to comfort him – “_No me toques… no me toques…_”

“_Tranquilo… tranquilo…_”**_(8)_** – she shushed him as he slowly gave on, trembling and feverish into her skinny arms – “Shhhhh…”

If inhumanly tense, Vulpes allowed her to shelter his head, shoulders and midsection on her arms, knowing very well how his currently violent perspiration wouldn’t do him any favors as soon as his body would lose heat out in the cold of the Mojave night.

Last thing he needed was dying of hypothermia soon after cheating death.

Sharing body heat was an acceptable type of physical closeness, he mused, nothing to do with invading personal space, just a necessary measure for survival purposes, he debated inwardly, trying very hard not to lash out of her embrace.

The nails of his left hand dug unconsciously on top of his opposite right wrist and scratched, trying in vain to release too great pent-up tension and anger.

That Profligate son of a jackal… he would _pay_ for this, for this filth running through his veins, for this cold seeping into the marrow of his very bones, for…

The girl’s hand gently took the aggressive fingers between hers, hushing and advising him softly not to do that.

Hadn’t he been feeling so incredibly shitty and exhausted, he would have clawed off her face. He still had this misleading instinct that whispered him delivering violence would make him feel better.

But the rational part of his addled brains knew that wouldn’t be a wise move. Not with Caesar still interested in the cooperation of this little girl to his cause.

Although had _he_ had been on Caesar’s shoes, he would have lost interest over her person immediately after this night.

She was nice and fun enough to have around, yes… but nothing remotely useful related to warfare could be found on her. She was no hero, she was no soldier. He had realized that much in their short time working together.

However, her warmth was pleasant, her thin arms were cozy, and the skinny crook of her neck was welcoming. She didn’t smell of cheap perfume and her skin was soft.

He fell asleep into a dreamless state in less than five minutes.

Six had relaxed as soon as she had noticed his body losing tension under her arms and his head heavy placidly resting against her shoulder. No matter his politeness and his pretty boy countenance, he was frightening when angered; so she was glad having his much larger structure asleep against hers. She could deal with his weight in this position just fine.

With nothing else to do but wait until dawn brought things quieter down the casino, Six maneuvered with her unconscious companion’s left arm and plugged on wireless data traffic on his Pip-Boy. At such a short distance, the archives would literally _fly_ at high speed.

She did the same with her Pip-Boy and, when both devices synchronized, Six introduced the due passwords she had put on and allowed data exchange.

First thing she did, just in case he would awake suddenly, was to cut-paste her diary log archives with all the annotations, personal observations and details on her whereabouts on the Mojave since her awakening. Not that she was happy doing this, but _Zorro_ was a spy, and she wasn’t going to feed him more than he was supposed to know.

She liked him; that much she already knew. He was loyal and trustworthy when honoring a deal and the tiny details with supporting her and trying to make her feel comfortable when she had dealt with Swank and Benny had been really sweet.

But he still was, nonetheless, Caesar’s spy. And it was a shame, really; without his allegiances with such a backward culture he could be a very nice person. In fact, he didn’t even sound like the few legionaries she had the dubious pleasure to meet, but that could have something to do with his profession.

She didn’t want to think that way, but she barely knew him and, as much as she wanted to be friends with him, she hadn’t any delusions about him not harboring thoughts about her pertaining to the _“weaker gender”_, thus her being to his eyes a sort of second-class civilian/human being.

Not that she had really experienced misogynic behavior first-hand from the legionaries she had encountered, but Cass, Arcade, Vero and Boone had told her more or less detailed varying versions about the same: Caesar’s Legion looked down on women even if they were the mothers, wives or daughters of legionaries.

That was why she hadn’t told them (or any of the NCR Rangers) about her encounter in Nipton, only what she had found there… sweet ED-E being the only witness, the poor thing, and since nobody but her understood its hybridization between echolocation/sonar/Morse language... She didn’t need judgmental arguments from her friends just because saying that she had found the providential exception that confirmed the rule: a polite legionary who had been nothing but understanding and nice to her.

A polite legionary who had orchestrated the gruesome wiping of an entire population.

Meantime the sensitive data from the Mojave was conveniently stored away from his device, Six took a good look at him: being this close and asleep on her shoulder, he didn’t seem like a Machiavellian mind capable of any atrocities. In fact, he looked like the boy she was sure he was. How old he could be? Nineteen? Twenty? She had seen how hardship could make a person look older than they truly were, so it would be funny if he ended being even younger than her.

After wiping also backup data just in case he ended knowing more about Operative Systems that he had let on, Six thought it was unfair leaving him with just a map and some innocuous random letters, notes and warnings about dangerous areas, images and data on people she didn’t care for that she had been collected in various locations from various individuals all over these five months on the Mojave, so she loaded her Capitol Wasteland and other updated old U.S.A. States’ maps with all their due locations she was aware of into his Pip-Boy model, an 3000A version she had managed to upgrade it to the 3000 Mark IV software update, _Pip-OS v7.1.0.8_. A bit tricky when reproducing holotapes’ recorded audios and slightly slower when loading HD images or videos, but other than that perfectly workable.

Her old Pip-Boy was the actual 3000 Mark IV model that had been the latest being manufactured before the War, so the Pip-OS software in hers worked 100% debugged, bless RobCo and their Developing Team, who took great pains to make the military devices’ software solid as a rock. No incompatibility issues, no useless small updates every ten days, armor-clad scalable Firewall and Antivirus system, real-time satellite (again, RobCo’s property and main design) connection with instant loading, almost perfect retrocompatibility with older hardware versions (not counting the _Beta_ 1.0, that thing had been experimental for what she understood, and wasn’t even released), no stupid buggy patches, nothing. Perfection in its purest state.

Feeling like sharing a bit more, she also loaded her entire Book Database (comics and visual novels too), a great deal of her Music Database (excluding certain genres and lyrics she knew he wouldn’t appreciate and/or understand) and some film selection from her Movie Database she knew he would enjoy into his device. Not that she would be able to load _everything_ she had stored on hers, his SD wasn’t as big as hers.

It would take a while, but she had plenty ahead so she was confident that the files would be loaded already before he woke up. Everything (or almost everything) she was sharing was food for thought mostly, music and films that would teach him something, make him think, and open his mind. She was sure he would be thankful for these.

And she couldn’t wait to discuss them with him. She hadn’t been able to discuss much audiovisual culture with almost anyone since…

Shuddering the very instant her thoughts went that direction, clearly on two minds about opening the chat, Six’s lithe frame held a little too tight on the asleep figure between her arms. She knew she shouldn’t. After all, it had been five months since…

_He_ would likely think that she was dead, right? If she didn’t open that communication channel, _he_ couldn’t reach her… True?

However, feeling the familiar pull on her index finger navigating through the Main Menu got the best of her and she danced around the issue for a few minutes, trying to make her traitorous finger not tapping over the Data Menu.

_He_ couldn’t possibly know that she had been shot, right? Maybe _he_ thought she was trying to run away again.

Maybe _he_ was angry now.

Wheeling on the Data Menu, still shuddering, she opened the communication channel and introduced her password.

The scarce 9 unread messages she found in common with _his_ channel scared her more than if they had been several thousands.

** _10:23 AM Wednesday, October 12, 2281_ **

** _Burke:_ ** _ Your contact will be waiting the day after tomorrow morning at 9. Once you reach Camp McCarran, ask for Sergeant Daniel Contreras. He will fill you with all the details you need to know._

** _10:24 AM Wednesday, October 12, 2281_ **

** _Burke:_ ** _ Also, remember what we talked about rounding Sloan. My informant told me that the deathclaw plague is still an issue and not something you should take lightly.  
_ _Do take care, fulfill your duties and we shall talk about that little excursion of yours Northeast. Do this for me, and there’s no telling how far my gratitude will reach, Birdie._

_Birdie_, he called her. Never by her true name. She had forgotten that tiny detail.

She wished she could wipe again that pet name from her memory.

** _08:04 PM Friday, October 14, 2281_ **

** _Burke:_ ** _ Birdie, dearest, I would like to know EXACTLY what has happened today. Sergeant Contreras informed one of our contacts that you did not make an appearance at the agreed or any other time of this day. And I would like to know WHY._

** _09:11 PM Friday, October 14, 2281_ **

** _Burke: _ ** _Birdie, darling, I would like to know what game you are playing at. Report immediately._

** _10:00 PM Friday, October 14, 2281_ **

** _Burke: _ ** _You and I are going to have a very serious conversation about this misbehavior of yours. If I do not see any reports excusing – and you better have a GOOD excuse – this current unfortunate circumstance on my inbox tomorrow morning, I will be severely disappointed.  
_ _You would not happen to want see me DISAPPOINTED, do you, Birdie?_

** _01:00 PM Saturday, October 15, 2281_ **

** _Burke:_ ** _ Birdie, dearest, I am starting to worry about you. And I do NOT appreciate adding yet another worry to my extensive list._  
_Be a good girl and send me your location if you are unable to write me back for whatever reason. I will send for you.  
_ _I will be waiting._

** _04:35 AM Tuesday, October 18, 2281_ **

** _Burke:_ ** _ Ungrateful girl, after all the pains I have taken to give you a life many would kill for! This is simply unacceptable.  
_ _We are NOT done yet, little miss; you WILL hear from me soon._

** _09:57 AM Thursday, October 20, 2281_ **

** _Burke:_ ** _ Birdie, precious, I am not mad at you. You do not have to be scared._  
_Just… do us both a kindness and end this little game of yours by sending me the coordinates of your physical location, would you?_  
_Everything will remain the same between us. No rancours or ill-feelings, I promise. And I am a man of word, I am not?_  
_Perhaps you need resting time after this? A nice long vacation here, in Tenpenny Tower, after such a strenuous journey to the opposite end of this country. I did send you because I knew you were the only one I could trust enough to deal with this delicate business.  
_ _Return to me little Birdie, and soon all of this will be a thing of the past._

** _11:01 AM Friday, October 28, 2281_ **

** _Burke:_ ** _ You have made a very poor error in judgment, my dear. It is a pity that you have chosen to ignore my attempts to keep things civil between us. Your petty whims will cost you dearly, I am afraid. I have sent an old friend of yours to deal with this unpleasant situation._  
_But you do not worry, for he has orders to bring you back here alive… although your bodily state might have not been specified to him. Quite unfortunate, isn’t it?  
_ _I do so enjoy a good hunt, Birdie, and I shall have it._

_Yours very truly,_

_Burke._

Six didn’t know she was crying until tears had started dropping in slow silence from her chin over her collarbone, chilly and piercing as the nightly air, cutting through her cheeks and soul.

She had forgotten what _true_ fear feels like. Now, she remembered.

Again.

* * *

_She could hear a voice calling her from a distance._

_A voice she knew well._

_A voice that meant something to her._

_A voice that she missed every day of her life._

_“(…)!”_

_The voice called her by a name. A name she couldn’t recognize._

_“(…)!”_

_A name she couldn’t grasp. A name she couldn’t keep._

_“(…)!”_

_A name meant for another time. A name meant for another life._

_“There you are, _bichilla curiosa_!” **(9)** – with the voice’s closeness came a hand, and with a hand came a man… and with that same man came a smile – “I’ve been looking for you for a good hour! Got yourself lost while getting inside doors that you are not supposed to open, eh?”_

_She had looked downwards to her two small feet. She had already been told countless of times that nosing around the military compound wasn’t allowed._

_Especially if you’re six and with far too much curiosity for your own good._

_“Is this your lost rascal, Lieutenant (…)?” – the laughing voice of the woman sitting behind a dark wooden desk came from ahead – “She has made quite the impression when she stormed through my door a handful minutes earlier while hiding inside my locker. I bet the angry voice coming from Captain Céspedes not ten seconds after the issue has absolutely nothing to do with anything, right buddy?” – she had added, winking mischievously at her._

_Funny she could remember some random guy’s surname and not her own._

_She had smiled shyly. She even had gotten candy from her little adventure. This kind young woman had given a couple Gum Drops to her once the angry man had stormed out again of her office._

_“I’m… I’m so sorry…” – the man had started to blurt awkwardly while picking her from the floor and securing her on his arms, patting softly her unruly mess of black hair she refused to get in pigtails like the rest of the little girls on the nursery. She liked it down and flowing, like a princess – “She’s just six and she has grown a bit adept at evasion maneuvers at the nursery in the last two weeks…”_

_But the woman had simply smiled._

_“When she told me to call her ‘Big Bro’ to pick her up, I didn’t expect you to be an actual Lieutenant.” – she had commented while pointing at his silver rank insignia embedded on his uniform – “I dismissed it a pet name from a smaller sister to a sixteen-year-old rookie. I admit I am impressed.”_

_“Well… uh… you know how things tend to work here: both military parents, father gets MIA during a diplomatic mission, young mother marries a second time… and here we are, just the girlie and me.”_

_“I’m sorry to hear that.” – she had answered promptly, as if embarrassed she had prodded too far – “But surely the kid is not always in your custody. Where is your mother or her father?”_

_Big Bro’s face had dropped a bit._

_“(…), last year. Same battalion.” – he had muttered._

_Not even names on places, her memories were buggy, like a program finished in haste. Not tested enough before its release, dependant on crappy patches… always tricky and incomplete._

_“God, I’m so sorry, I have this horrible tendency of asking far too many questions and…”_

_“It’s okay. Many think she’s my daughter instead of my lil’ sis and I always get the _‘where’s her mommy’_ question. Guess she having six and me being eighteen years older than her does not help my cause...”_

_“No, no, no, that’s not an excuse anyone should bring up to poke randomly at your private life, ever.” – the woman had told him firmly – “And, since I happen to have just done so, I believe an apology is in order.” – checking a device she didn’t remember the name of, she had consulted the hour – “Half past eleven in the morning. You two hungry? I bet at this hour the cafeteria is still fairly empty and they’re just preparing the chow so… wanna have some early lunch? The good tasty stuff I mean, not the dull daily grub here. Everything on my account.”_

_Big Bro had squirmed a little after getting all red in the face._

_“You don’t have to do that…” – he had muttered awkwardly, quick on his usual behavior of letting his opportunities with women go with the wind and his utter shyness… but the little devil on his arms had had other plans._

_She had liked this woman. A lot. She had been so nice and understanding… and she hadn’t told the angry man where she had been hiding! Plus, she was pretty, with cute long brown hair like a princess and had a warm voice, warm eyes and a warm smile._

_Bet Big Bro would find her as pretty as she did._

_“Let’s go, (…)!” – she had exclaimed enthusiastically – “Look! She has long hair like a princess! That’s pretty! And she’s cool and I’m hungry! Let’s go to the cafeteria with her!” – she had put on her Big Eyes Trick that Big Bro never said no – “Please?”_

_Now she couldn’t even summon up his name, as much as her brain wanted to reach for the memory… it was like clawing concrete._

_“You and I are going to have a conversation about behaving in such an opportunistic fashion, (…).”_

_Painful and useless._

_“Aw, c’mon.” – the kind woman had spoken softly – “The kid’s hungry and I owe you an apology. Just take it for what it is and nothing more, Lieutenant (…).”_

_All those months she had tried so hard… so hard to keep up with bits and pieces while searching desperately for whatever information that could complete her own faulty memories… but, in Primm, she knew she had hit a wall the moment an incomplete data sheet had been thrown to her lap._

_“You can call me (…).”_

_Her only hope had been finding Benny… so she may point a gun to his fucking head the same way he had done with her and demand he returned what was hers._

_However… it seems like she wasn’t meant to avenge her past self._

_“Okay, but only if you two call me (…) as well.”_

_To avenge the memory of those nameless people she knew she had loved. Once._

_That day had been a happy day and she had had a full box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes as a dessert, her favorite._

_That day her Big Bro had found the woman who, in time, had ended being the love of his life._

_A woman she also had loved. A disappeared woman amidst oceans of time and the shrilling screams of two bullets._

_“Sir, this little shit… she has stolen one of our men’s rifles. She has blown one of the other kids’ head off.”_

_She hadn’t…_

** _“Really? And how, do pray tell, a little girl is capable of outsmart a whole group of armed adult men not just by stealing one of their weapons, but also managing to make us loss a profitable transaction on the way? And all of this while still being collared.”_ **

_She hadn’t meant to…_

_“Uh… Sir, I didn’t mean…”_

_But they…_

** _“No, you didn’t. And that is why I am feeling merciful and, in spite of your incompetence handling a small number of children, I will spare you and your men’s lives and careers today. You should be grateful.”_ **

_They had said…_

_“T… thank you so much, Sir.”_

_They had said they were nothing…_

** _“Now, leave me and the girl alone. We have much to discuss and I do not have further need of you or your men. You shall be paid half the agreed percentage, though. This incompetence and inelegant way of conducting business? Not the cleverest move when dealing with Mister Tenpenny’s wishes.”_ **

_That their lives now pertained to third parties._

_“But that wasn’t what we…!”_

_Two silenced shootings and the man had lied dead. The red right hand wielding the weapon big and unforgiving as its owner._

** _“Why do you knuckle draggers always insist on doing things the hard way?”_ ** _ – he had spat, his voice deep and smooth like warm, poisoned wine. Her eyes still on the ground, staring at his brown shoes – **“Come here, pretty bird.”**_

_He was a god, he was a man, he was a ghost, he was a guru._

** _“There you are. Jumpy little thing, aren’t you?”_ ** _ – he had smiled, his big red right hand under her small chin, forcing her to meet his steely gaze behind tortoiseshell sunglasses – **“Color me intrigued. Tell me your name, songbird.”**_

_She had answered._

_And he had smiled again. His smile, a forty-something years old man smile, would have made the Devil himself weep._

_Many had whispered his name on the far West, miles of dust through this disappearing land._

_And they feared, they pleaded, they adored the man on the pristine suit._

_Because hidden next to his holster there was a red right hand._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "Friendly advice."  
(2) - "the sweet gigantic granny"  
(3) - "No... no... Don't... touch me..."  
(4) - "Give me... your... pistol..."  
(5) - "YOU ARE A DEAD MAN!!"  
(6) - "Never... you dare... touch me again... Not without... my permission... ¿Understand...?"  
(7) - "Help me, please, help me climb up!"  
(8) - "Calm down... calm down..."  
(9) - "nosy little bug" (a Spanish term of endearment).
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: Thank you to those people who reviewed and left me Kudos! I'm putting a lot of effort into this fic not being the same old story we all know.  
I've dropped little references I hope you catch easily and enjoy. Every chapter title is a song title. "Libertango" it's from Grace Jones (previously, the first chapter had been "Strangers in the night" by Frank Sinatra, but I felt that it was too classic and obvious); "Psychobabble" it's from Alan Parsons Project and "Lazarus" it's from David Bowie's last work "Blackstar".  
So... here we have more story even if the current events are developing very slowly. Six has a past that is still chasing after her and Vulpes has his own issues.  
What do you think? Like it, hate it? A cap for your thoughts :)


	4. Nowhere Man

* * *

As soon as consciousness hit him back, Vulpes’ first physical sensation, besides the cold breeze cutting through his lips and cheeks, was how _incredibly_ sore he felt in general.

His back ached, his limbs felt heavy and too tender for his liking, his throat felt irritated, his head was beating in perfect synchrony with his heartbeat, his eyes hurt…

And _this_ was the sensation Profligate drug addicts were so intent on getting from the chems? He simply didn’t understand it.

Touching with his fingertips the cold hard granite ground he was lying on facing up the sky, the Courier’s sweet warmth no longer sheltering him, he slowly opened his eyes preparing to find himself alone and, possibly, deprived of his hard-earned price rounding his left forearm; shame and self-deprecation for having fallen for such a deception already on the tip of his tongue.

In one night, he had made _all_ the mistakes of a rookie legionary fresh out of training camps.

Oh, were Anguis still alive, the man would have had so much _fun_ with his current predicament...

But alone he wasn’t. And the electronic device was still attached to his forearm.

For, sitting cross-legged merely a few paces from him was the Courier. Her naked arms and legs were shivering as she tried to shelter herself from the chilly air by means of sitting against the protruding ventilation hood to avoid wind from one direction, her almost-bluish fingertips trying in vain to rub her arms up and down.

She _hadn’t abandoned_ him, she _hadn’t betrayed_ him.

Hell, she had even _bothered_ putting him face up so he wouldn’t get any sorer, and had _wrapped_ him with his own jacket so he wouldn’t be cold.

“Oh…” - she whispered, her voice small and trembling as her teeth were chattering uncontrollably – “Y-you’re a-awake. H-how d’you f-f-feel?”

Oh, silly, _silly_ girl…

He tried to answer, but between the cold and how sore his throat felt, he only managed a pitiful short grunt.

“Y-yeah… d-drugs a-a-are n’thing but s-shit.” – she nodded, understanding and, clearly, trying to make him feel better… until her expression suddenly changed to one doe-eyed look – “W-would y-you f-f-forgive m-me? I-I didn’t kno-ow y-you d-d-don’t like b-being touch’d. I-I ap-p-pologize, it will n-not hap-p-p’n again. P-promise.”

Had she… had she just… _apologized_ for _touching_ him?

Nobody had apologized for violating his personal space before. Never.

Deciding that being apart would not benefit any of the affected parts for the time being and with still a handful hours of darkness and cold ahead, Vulpes rolled slowly on one side and unwrapped himself from his jacket to open a gap with his left arm, growling an unintelligible invitation.

Casting him a doubtful look, she shivered again.

“A-are y-you s-sure?” – she asked timidly, honest uncertainty tinting her small voice.

He grunted again impatiently, signaling with his eyes for her to get the hell already inside the jacket with him.

He hadn’t to insist more as she seized the opportunity and crawled into his embrace.

As soon as her lithe form was flush against his, he proceeded to rub both her arms to create heat from friction between them. Their limbs were numbed from the cold, so the operation of rub and being rubbed was clumsy, slow and a bit awkward for both of them.

However, as feeling returned to Six’s arms, she let out a relieved sight.

“Aaah, much better.” – she whispered with contentment – “Thank you. I know this is not the most ideal situation and you don’t like people touching you and…” – she swallowed, watching as he squinted both his eyes in an unamused glance, telling her how needless this conversation was – “Anyway, I just want to say that I… appreciate the effort and all of that.”

His now furrowed white brows accompanying an unsmiling gesture communicated to her that he _wasn’t_ appreciating the current conversation and that she should shut up _now_. He wasn’t a child needing coddling from her and her misled notion of pity.

He wanted _no one’s_ pity.

A good three-hundred seconds passed between them in tense silence. She staring at his throat, him looking the horizontal concrete ahead of him.

“So…” – Six started, risking a peek on his very blue, very gelid eyes – “Wanna learn how to use the Pip-Boy?”

His face relaxed. That was definitely a yes.

However, their current position made things difficult to maneuver his wrist and left forearm to be visible for both of them.

So they switched positions again, ending with his much larger structure spooning hers. Luckily, they were too numb to acknowledge any type of _inadequate_ friction between them.

“Let’s see.” – she instructed, accommodating his left arm around hers so she could use her right hand to pinpoint out things on the screen – “See this wheel? It is for switching between menus. That’s it. You’ve got three menus: Stats, Items and Data. Each menu has more submenus, so you navigate through this in tree branches; like starting from a seed, which is the device itself, then to the main stem, which is the Operative System, thus the interface. This OS’s interface is structured in tree fashion, or branches that are the menus, and each branch has smaller branches, that also are the submenus. You getting a feel of the structure?”

Vulpes nodded, fascinated. He already knew how a standard RobCo Operative System worked on terminals and such on a very basic level, but hearing her explaining it this way made it look like far easier.

“We are going to customize your Statistics Menu, okay?” – she waited until he switched to the desired menu – “Let’s start with the basics: introduce here your gender, your age, your weight and your height.” – she could feel him tensing behind her – “I don’t mean to pry. I will close my eyes if you want, but this information is crucial for the device to check on your vital signs and estimate your level of nutrition, radiation and chances on V.A.T.S. Very useful if you get injured and/or poisoned. It helps to have a better grasp on your current health.”

Vulpes’ hand hesitated before starting to type at surprisingly fast pace.

_So, twenty years old_. – Six mused internally, watching him finish the quick form – _He’s older than me._

How did a twenty-year-old boy become one of Caesar’s Commanders? Had he been recently promoted? Six wasn’t really sure, the NCR protected their Intel as much as Caesar’s Legion did and, even if they knew that the coyote-headdress wielder was one of the Legion’s Commanders, they didn’t really know his name, not to her knowledge. Many just recognized what he represented, but the NCR soldiers’ epithets for him varied from _“Dog Head” _to _“Terror of the Mojave”_. He, along with the dictator himself and Golden Mask Dude, were the NCR Most Wanted these days.

And she knew why.

“Okay…” – she continued as he had hit _Accept_ – “Tap over that small cogwheel symbol, it’s the Main Settings.” – he was very quick at learning, which made handling the OS’ interface faster and easier, plus she hadn’t to repeat herself – “See also those little symbols there? They’re what you can change/enable/disable on the device. Now switch on the Geiger Counter there so we can see how much… HOLY MOLLY!” – she exclaimed after checking twice his Statistics’ Bars – “How can you possibly have _502 rads_?! That’s Advanced Radiation Poisoning, man!” – she was completely scandalized while he looked completely unfazed by such results – “This thing has to be wrong or it’s still loading your Stats into the system, calibrating your pulse, temperature and structure; you cannot _possibly_ being halfway going ghoul.”

Oh, but he could. To his knowledge, he could very well be as contaminated as the device read. Given his and every single person’s constant exposition to irradiated water each time he bathed, each time he ingested Pre-War food and drinks… and his and his Frumentarii’s more than questionable treks all over the desert, no matter the irradiated creatures and contaminated points on the landscape as long as they served the Legion’s purposes, add to that a twenty-year-old life where Pre-War medicines had been a “civilized world”, then “a Profligate thing” that one should not tamper with… it was a miracle he hadn’t presented any poisoning symptoms yet.

Many of his colleagues, instead of dying with honor bleeding all over the battlefield, died lying on their backs either in a bed, either on the hard ground alone if they were very unlucky. They died the slow death by consuming themselves from inside by cancer as if they were men twice older than their actual ages.

That was yet one of the many reasons children were so scarce in this world and _particularly_ in the Legion: because radiation caused people becoming sterile.

He didn’t feel particularly threatened by leading such a dangerous, coming-short life. He had come to terms that he was going to die a young man many years ago. As long as he was fulfilling his role in the shaping of History, regardless of whether this very shaping ended wiping the entire human race or not from the face of the Earth, he could live with the consequences.

He always did.

However, despite his grim thoughts, he had to admit that he was enjoying himself right now a lot, learning computing from this restless creature who seemed so enthusiastic and positive about everything in general since they had decided to work together, that she was becoming quite contagious.

She looked happy as she kept on explaining the excellences of Pre-War tech, showing him how to scan the shape of an object to aid the device identifying the purpose and usefulness of an item, creating a database about what items could be more useful and/or valuable. You only had to sort out the search system and organize items by category in alphabetical/value/weight order. Then the device would present you a list of options depending upon your needs about how to organize your backpack and your economy.

It was very intuitive and, with time and continued use, the stored information helped to make a more personalized experience.

Then, she played him a tutorial video about how to use the Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System, or V.A.T.S. She said she couldn’t teach him how to use it at the same time he tried it.

He discovered why.

The very moment he learned the exact twist he had to play with his wrist, his pupils dilated and, suddenly, everything became incredibly slow.

While his brains were reeling with the most amazing sensation ever, a sensation of freedom and invincibleness he had rarely experienced in all his short life, his eyes were burning and he could hear his heartbeat as if the organ itself were about to implode from inside his ears.

Somehow, he could perceive a far greater visual range than normal and his eyes could outline bodily heat. He focused his eyes over his companion and he watched, totally bewitched, how her body was divided into logical separate sections, each one showing a percentage between 0 and 100.

And her current closeness read high percentages on her head and neck while it read next to nothing as his eyes got downwards her form.

His experience was abruptly cut the moment he felt her hand around his wrist.

“Don’t abuse it.” – she warned – “V.A.T.S. uses technology that synchronizes with your heartbeat, your nervous system, your hormones and neurotransmitters. Through small electrical shocks, it gives you a natural adrenaline rush, that’s why you perceive everything slower… but if you abuse its uses in too a short time, it could produce embolism that could destroy your brain.” – she was explaining all of this with something akin to concern dancing behind her dark eyes – “Be careful.”

After such an experience, he felt more drained than he had cared to admit to himself.

She seemed to perceive his mood and showed him the Book, Music and Movie Databases she told him she had copied into his device for him to enjoy.

When she had done such a thing…?

Despite his sudden inner questions about compromised data she could have just altered, the Courier made him sweep through the monstrous Music Database divided into folders until she found the archive she was looking for.

“Listen, listen.” – she pressed, excited, while opening a small compartment and taking a pair of wireless earplugs from it, giving him the left one – “These guys are the best.”

This way, confusion growing bigger with each second passing, Vulpes Inculta found himself rather unwillingly, but soon appreciatively, introduced to some dead music quartet that started to sing about some lonely man without a point of view who didn’t belong anywhere.

“The Beatles” she said they were called.

* * *

“Listen bro, me and my pals here aren’t moving until you start giving some answers.”

Swank’s nerves already were on the very verge of collapse, everything had been wrong on a seemingly relaxed night: first the girl and her little weirdo friend with the oily voice bearing House’s message, next is Benny losing ass ranting about psycho brats while leaving a disgusting trail of blood all over the _new_ carpets, disappearing a moment later from sight. He had not returned. Neither the gal nor her companion had come back down.

And now these… he didn’t even know how to call them: a group composed of two guys, two gals, a mangy cyberdog that was also _pawing_ and _drooling_ all over the goddamned carpets and… a thrice-motherfucking supermutant with the _biggest_ blade ever strapped to its back. A supermutant House’s securitrons had allowed entering the Strip. A supermutant with free pass on _human_ territory.

A supermutant that could cause a _lot_ of trouble and broken furniture if angered enough.

All of them asking questions about the girl, saying that the dog had tracked her down here, that they had House’s approval on all of this.

He wasn’t quite sure, but bluffing or not about their allegiance with House, Swank would need a Valium later, he just knew that.

“You better listen to my friend here or there will be consequences.” – the shortest, youngest of the two women added, clearly backing up the soldier’s not-so-eloquent discourse abilities – “Consequences that wouldn’t make your life any easier. If you know what I mean.”

Swank just gave up. He felt so tired, so done with everything… to think all had started with him just wanting to get laid…

Never again was he going to get involved with a teen. Not for nothing they had the “T” for _“Trouble”._

“Look, she and her friend approached me in Big Man’s name, dig?” – he answered, immensely tired, wanting for this night to end to take a shower and going to bed as soon as possible – “Got my blessing, went to confront Benny and… things have gotten a bit out of hand since then.”

“Which friend?” – now it was a tall blonde man doing the talk, his glasses annoyingly reflecting the ceiling lights towards Swank’s eyes – “Describe them.”

“Young tall fella, blue eyes and white hair.” – the Chairman answered, rumbling internally as he recalled the uneasy sensation he had gotten around that one – “Voice with funny accent, bit handsy with the gal. Thought he was her boyfriend or something, she wasn’t _exactly_ squirming, you dig?”

The alarm looks he saw on the four human integrants of such a ragtag group informed him that pretty-weirdo-boy hasn’t been on the menu till now. There was something in their story that did not match.

And he wasn’t just risking angering House _again_ just for the sake of some dudes wanting information on one of his agents. He couldn’t allow these crazy people with that _filthy_ dog went roaming armed and pissed off all around the casino searching for some girl they may or they may not want dead.

However, there was the supermutant with the _meanest_ blade ever strapped to its back…

Motherfucking diplomacy it was.

He offered them staying at the casino level, all expenses on the house, while his men, not Benny’s, took a peek to the Presidential Suite and Benny’s private room to see if the gal and her companion were still around.

Grudgingly, they accepted.

And he came to regret dearly his invitation as soon as the supermutant sat over two stools that creaked dangerously under its enormous weight and the redhead cowgirl started asking for their most expensive brand of whiskey.

It was going to be a long, _long_ night.

* * *

The first sun rays poking out on the horizon got them both by surprise as music had been flowing in good company; Vulpes’ no longer so sore throat had invited to ask whispered questions about lyrics’ meanings and many references he could not pinpoint.

She, the Courier, had happily provided, inviting debate and something she called “brainstorm”.

From Beatles they had moved onto a guy named Bob Dylan that had been gifting their ears with some profound reflexions about how many years can some people exist before they were allowed to be free and how many times can a man turn his head and pretend that he just didn't see.

For so he had pondered the same questions often.

It seemed that, even before the War, people had kept asking the same questions with no answers to hold onto.

It was a bit disheartening that, even with all their History on their backs to learn from, people, same as the war, never changes.

However, as the sun hit on his sensitive retinas, Vulpes’ bubble had violently burst and he had become again Caesar’s greatest Frumentarius who, in a cold display of hypocritical pragmatism, had started to ask himself just what in the Spear of Mars was he doing lying down on cold hard ground embracing this unappealing thin female body attached to a mind full of pretty although useless philosophies and theories, giving voice to dead thinkers pertaining to a dead civilization.

Within a moment he disdained her, her sweet warmth, her endearing enthusiasm and everything she represented. To him, she was just a Dissolute.

Good enough to be converted into Caesar’s vision without vices ruining her body and mind, but too idealistic to come around easily.

However, Caesar would enjoy sharing his vision with such an uncorrupted, young soul as much as Vulpes himself had done this night. She might have something to contribute to his Lord’s _Pro Causa_ yet… even if that _something_ would end being merely a perfect object lesson for the many Profligates who admired and supported her Courier legend.

Just for the sake of example and, hopefully, indoctrination in her case, she had to meet his Lord. One way or another.

Nonetheless, he had to keep his amicable façade with her if he wanted her relationship with the Legion to flow smooth and easiest as possible. He was sure he wouldn’t gain anything from her by bulling her into buying Caesar’s philosophy just because he said so.

He had to convince her, to make her see the difference between what was the _right thing_ to do and what was the _convenient thing_ to adopt.

For it would be a shame that they, somehow, ended being enemies because he had not been able to behave like what she thought was a _decent_ human being. Time he had to show her what actually was _decency_. All the time in the world.

That was why, after suggesting they look for some way downstairs without alerting the building security, he allowed her to keep his jacket to shelter her from the cold until full daylight settled its unforgiving wings of fire and heat over Sin City.

Profligate… _Dissolute_ women liked it when a man offered them comfort and protection, right? Just like any other Legion woman - slave, priestess or civilian.

As she accepted his gesture with a beaming smile, thanking him with words and not with _annoying_ touching, he thought she would make a fine addition to Legion women.

Her status would only depend on how well she assimilated their culture… or rather how well their culture would assimilate _her_.

* * *

Swank’s right eye twitched twice the moment his sight landed on the broken latches firmly screwed on crooked doors, riddled furniture peppering the floor with splinters, bullets embedded in the walls, exploded bottles and disfigured corpses staining the carpets with liquor and blood… _the fucking NEW carpets, damnit!_

What the fuck had Benny been thinking?! This hadn’t been a social reunion, but rather a battlefield!

He didn’t fucking care whether the girl and her boyfriend had attacked first, Benny should have known better than to take them to the _motherfucking_ Presidential Suite, where all the parties and reunions with the Brahmin Barons and other important NCR powerful figures, fucking Ambassador Crocker included, were always conducted!

This was a disaster, an utter, complete disaster…

As he passed through the adjoining rooms seething with anger as he saw the stropic Benny’s stupid gorillas had created in their wake, he prayed not to find the girl’s or her companion’s corpses. He couldn’t afford to lose more points with House, and the Chairmen were already on the tightrope in his book.

Relief washed over him as he saw the dismantled ventilation grill on the last bathroom.

So the kids had managed to escape.

Let’s just pray that they don’t pass a bad review on House. If he managed to contact them again, he would offer them free drinks, games and the key of a nice suite to compensate Benny’s ill moves and treachery.

Anything that would assure him and his brothers not becoming the next target on House’s securitrons’ lens.

* * *

Something had changed.

She could tell as she kept descending the rusty steps of the emergency fire escape staircase that his gaze was always intent either on the horizontal steps, either on the closing ground, never above where she was descending after him.

True that she appreciated his null impulse to take a peek on the depths of her skirts, true that she was secretly relieved to have still his jacket on as she was using the significantly longer sleeves to avoid contact between her naked hands and the crust of rust on the metallic steps, yes… but his demeanor had taken a slight, although not entirely unpleasant, shift the very moment the sun had risen.

The second he had gotten unwillingly drugged by Benny’s hand, he had been incredibly open and trusting to her. She knew the Psychojet had something to do with that as, besides turning the user into a more violent individual, Psychojet also disinhibited said individual’s conduct, making them blunter and easier to read.

But he had overcome the chem’s effects in an hour or so and he had gotten sleep recovery time, so when he had waked up he had been, if nursing the chem’s “hangover”, perfectly sober and aware of his surroundings.

They both had had a really fun time while he had discovered how the Pip-Boy worked and she had been happy watching him enjoy. And happier she had felt the moment she had seen that he liked music and he was willing to discuss the meaning of the lyrics.

However, the very instant he had suggested they both look for a way to get down as, in daylight, things would be quieter on the entire Strip, she had seen that guarded look he had used when she had awakened in his room return to his eyes.

Maybe he could induce others believe that he was being merely complacent and even polite, for his body language and the way he schooled his features was crafted to please, to make others feel at ease around him.

But Six was a good observer, that was how she could predict more or less how certain topics and intonation would please or awake a certain reaction from others. And she had seen him unguarded, she had seen him enjoying her teaching him, she had seen him altered and annoyed. Even if his entire body was sending mixed signals to her, his eyes betrayed him.

Fair irises had this peculiar disadvantage that someone as observant as her could tell if the owner of such eyes was interested or not, excited or not, tired or not. Pupil dilation was a reflex move, thus impossible to fully control it.

On that field, she had more vantage than him. Her eyes were so dark that pupil dilation was hard to read without direct light.

That was why she was behaving extremely compliant and polite around him now. She could tell that he didn’t find her a half-bad company, and that was a start… but his guarded demeanor disguised as apparent ease discouraged her from further approach.

It was to be expected, she tried to reason with her emotional side that was already giving up while repeating that familiar painful mantra about that she wasn’t good enough, that no sane kid would want to be her friend, that she was an egghead nerd and a freaky weirdo; he was a spy and his work consisted of deceit and extract information from the enemy. And she, though not having been actively antagonizing the Legion in all these months, wasn’t an ally of his either.

And something told her that this boy in particular wasn’t quick trusting anybody.

But hey, good friendships were a constant work of care, time and perseverance. Best friends were the hardest to get; if he needed building trust and time, she would procure them to him.

At least he didn’t seem _bored _and/or _uninterested_ like Jerry the Punk and the others had been. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so considerate with her. No matter his interest wasn’t of immediate friendship, the good thing was that they have some common interests. Friendship could be built around common interests, right?

Or, at least, that was what she chooses to think.

They reached a small metallic platform that guided towards an emergency red door.

_Zorro_ asked for one of the hairpins she was still wearing on her hair, and she provided. It was fascinating looking at him while he worked out the rusty lock, he seemed so intent, so focused and yet so deft while tinkering with the lock’s inner mechanisms… Six wondered if he would teach her how to do it if she asked him real nice.

Making a soft, pleased hum as the familiar click gave way towards the interior; Vulpes took a quick peek before signaling the girl that it was safe to enter.

They found themselves inside one of those emergency corridors that gave open either to stairs or maintenance rooms.

There were two possible ways: an emergency elevator door or a maintenance door. Both chose the second.

_“Hey! Hi there, good to meet you!”_ – an electronic, overly cheery voice greeted them as soon as they set foot in the new room – _“What can I do for you two today?”_

Vulpes’ first instinct had been to tackle both his and the Courier’s weights towards a corner, behind bulky machinery that he believed to be an assembly workshop of sorts.

For, in front of his hand pointing the 9mm he still had on his power, a securitron was buzzing while an odd smiling interface was showing on its screen, not the typical soldier-like brand of Mr. House that crowded the Strip.

_“Don't worry about me! You can shoot if you want!”_ – the machine exclaimed with creepy artificial joy – _“I won't complain, promise!”_

“What’s this place?” – Six’s voice over his right shoulder as she poked out her head behind him while on tiptoes asked timidly – “_What_ are _you_ doing here?”

_“Why, this is Benny’s workshop. When The Tops got renovated, he had this half of the floor blocked off for his own use!”_ – the machine immediately answered – _“I guess you could say it's my entire world! I don't think I've ever left this room! But that's okay - I'm not complaining!”_ – however, as she was about to ask again, the altered securitron continued – _“About your other question, which is a good one, by the way: my function is to monitor Mr. House's data network and decode his encrypted transmissions!”_

Vulpes and Six exchanged a dumbfounded look. Seems like this mission of theirs hadn’t ended just yet.

“Aaand you’re telling us all of this because…?”

_“I was programmed to be helpful and answer any questions I was asked. I guess nobody bothered to restrict who I answer questions for!”_

Lowering his gun slowly, Vulpes raised a brow.

“What are you _exactly_?” – he asked cautiously.

The machine buzzed as if it were excited being questioned.

_“As I understand it, I used to be just like all those other securitrons out on the Strip; but then, my neuro-computational matrix was completely reprogrammed! To be nice! Very, very nice!”_ – it replied – _“But enough beating around the bush and allow me to introduce myself! I'm a PDQ-88b securitron, but you can call me Yes Man!”_

The Bull’s Fox’s ears perked with an instinct that this would be a one-time chance to gather as much Intel about House and the Chairmen as he wished.

Unbeknownst to him, his temporal allegiance with the Courier had proved to be much more interesting and profitable than he could have possibly anticipated. Maybe she wasn’t a great fighter, alright, but she knew how to follow orders and her presence and aid had proven instrumental in finding this gold mine on information.

The Legion _must_ benefit from her collaboration; she _must_ work with _him_, no matter the cost. Caesar _shall_ have her as his emissary to a New Era. His _Mercuria_.

Vulpes _shall_ have her by _his side_ when the Second Battle for Hoover Dam would take place. His _Frumentaria Fortuna_.

For she had already demonstrated that luck was on her side, and she provided to those close to her. She was a walking charm, like those that the wise women on his tribe had worn on difficult times when decisions mattered the most.

He hadn’t thought about those women for so many years that now, with memories emerging from the pit of his gray matter archive, they flowed easily as he recalled how each of those very women had been spared from the massacre; their blessed daughters whose faces they had painted in white, a virtue symbol, had ended being offered to the Temple as priestesses, venerated and untouchable, the best fate for a tribal girl in the Legion. Their male counterparts had not been so lucky when the Legatus in charge of the operation had ordered _Dimidio_ amidst them to gather the stronger among the young ones. The most severe form of population screening and also a punishment for those meant to only watch.

A perfect object lesson.

His tribe had been a thorn on Caesar’s side despite how much the Son of Mars wanted to say the opposite. His tribe had been large, with an old tradition of passing on the chief’s name onto the eldest male child until one of his younger male siblings would challenge him to earn the name in fair combat. His had been a tribe of warriors, a tribe of hunters. A tribe whose name had been widely known all over the valleys South of Utah.

A tribe whose memory was nothing more than tiny snippets that each year faded more and more into oblivion as battles were fought and comrades fell all around him.

He had been the chief’s second child, with zero interest in challenging his older brother for his name when both would be older. He had liked his birth name; he didn’t see what the appeal in changing it was. His father had told him that he was smart, that he was way too intelligent for his own damn good.

However, his father had fallen down in combat as well as his older brother had perished later on the _Dimidio_.

Seven siblings. Six boys. Five had undergone the _Dimidio_. Four assimilated. Three remained with the scars of memory. Two dead. One had been a newborn baby at that time.

And none of them had been left untouched by the Bull's horns.

He had survived. The wise women of the tribe had said that his bleached skin tone and hair gave him an alien appearance, made to slide through the dark since his sensitivity towards sunlight cataloged him into a night predator position. Born to strike from the shadows.

And those women had ended being right.

However, since the assimilation day, Vulpes hadn’t put much thought on that imprecise notion that was fate. That had been a "tribal concept born out of ignorance".

But now, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

That encounter on Nipton couldn’t possibly been merely _accidental_. He knew it now.

“Very well… Yes Man.” – he spoke confidently, his musings food for another time. He had to savor them first, to acquire taste on them – “Would you be answering some questions for me?”

* * *

Cass’ forehead lied over the bar counter as the coolness from the furniture was helping a bit with her hangover.

In truth, she rarely underwent hangovers mostly due to her almost non-stop supply of liquor running down her throat, then through her system, easing the nonsensical nature of her life in general.

However, since that little girl had entered the seedy bar from the NCR Mojave Outpost’s barracks asking if they had Vanilla Nuka-Cola, Rose of Sharon Cassidy had started to, slowly but surely, find herself soberer than she would have liked.

First, she had mistaken her for a boy and had shooed her away saying something along the lines that _“he had to be ten years older and have a dick at least half as long as Long Dick Johnson to have her remotely interested”_. After that, she was pretty sure she had fallen asleep over the counter, for the next thing she recalled was having a stiff neck and her titties had felt too damn hot when she had awakened with what she thought was a pre-teen boy still in front of her but this time offering her a glass of water and some painkillers named aspirins.

She had accepted the glass with a grimace, not used to the tasteless liquid that didn’t burn her throat as she had kept swallowing it with the offered small white tablets.

After twenty minutes she had felt better and had kissed what she still had thought a boy on the cheek, telling her that _“he was sweet as fuck, but she wasn’t on the mood to fuck sweetly”_.

The very instant the small teen had opened her mouth and the soberness hadn’t allowed any mistake in recognition, Cass’ face had gone as red as the sun at rush hour.

She said she was called Six, that the floating mechanical sphere buzzing over her head was her friend and had asked if she had seen a man on a checkered suit.

Cass’ first reaction had been having a hearty laugh. And she hadn’t had many reasons to laugh back in her previous situation without having notices from her caravan employees.

However, seen that the gal in front of her had been deadly serious, Cass had felt even more embarrassed for her being such an asshole with such a sweet girl. So she had invited her for some late lunch as a way to compensate for her inadequate behavior.

The girl hadn’t asked for something overly expensive and Cass had been thankful for that, not knowing how much her savings would buy her whiskey and food… and whiskey again if she didn’t start to move her ass soon.

The Six girl had suggested the redhead to accompanying her through the desert until they reached a population named Novac. Cass had asked if she wouldn’t want to stop on Nipton and Six had replied way too calmly that Nipton had been wiped out by the Legion, that she had seen the banners and the burned corpses.

To say that Cass had been freaked out had been to fall short. And the Six girl had been immensely neutral as she had spoken of fire ants crowding the road down the Outpost soon after delivering the Nipton news, all of this while swallowing a full box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes and giving a soft patting over the buzzing device… that each _damn_ time responded to her touch with _goddamn_ excited beeping.

Way too weird for Cass’ tastes, she had politely declined her offer saying that she was waiting hearing news from her employees, that she couldn’t move from the Outpost until she closed some business here in the Mojave.

The day after the small girl and her floating device had disappeared in the desert, news on her caravans had arrived: heading North, her last caravan had been burned to the ash, driver included.

Suddenly, her existence had come to a halt and she wasn’t sure how much whiskey she would need to silence that small voice on the back of her head reprimanding her, saying that she should have accompanied the Six girl, that she shouldn’t have allowed her to leave with that flying creepy piece of junk as protection.

Many weeks had passed with more travelers dropping news about the attacks on caravans being more frequent and virulent each time. And the fire ants multiplying themselves down the road didn’t help anything to improve everybody’s grim mood since news on Nipton’s fate and the threat of Caesar’s Legion gaining ground had caught on them.

However, one day that Cass was already pondering how deep in the bottle could one drown before reacting once and for all, three merchants had arrived at the Outpost heavily escorted while saying that some crazy nuts were wiping the road from the fire ant plague.

An hour and a half later the one and only Six girl had reappeared… followed not just by her beloved pile of floating trash, but also accompanied by two men, a young woman, a cyberdog and far better equipment than those weeks earlier.

She had arrived saying that it was her group’s doing that the fire ants were no more. And she had had the necessary witnesses to back her claims.

Ranger Jackson had compensated their efforts by passing them two boxes of ammo and some caravan luncheons.

Then Six had come to the bar to give her drunk ass yet another glass of water and more aspirins while she asked if Cass would be willing to sell her business to the Crimson Caravans Company.

First, Cass had been pissed off, but when she had seen Alice McLafferty’s signature on the offer letter, she had wanted to challenge the girl on a drinking contest.

However, one of his companions, an NCR ex-sniper, had cut the fun before it had started saying that _“no alcohol for the girlie”_; the party pooper, he acted more like a big brother to her than a companion.

So did the rest of her group, for what Cass had seen in the coming months after signing McLafferty’s offer letter and agreeing to be a plus one on Six’s growing group. She was a kid, and even the cybernetic dog was intent on protecting her no matter what. Cass couldn’t blame them, Six was so small and good-hearted that the Mojave would chew, swallow and then fart her out like some bad memory if nobody did anything on the matter.

That was primarily why every last of them were aiding her on her quest finding some dude named Benny who had stolen something from her after shooting her twice in the head and leaving her for dead in a cemetery.

Cass had said that they should chase the cocksucker and give him Hell. The rest had agreed.

It had been a long time since somebody actually listened to what she had to say, that somebody agreed with her and backed up her ideas. Six often consulted every one of them (even the fucking floating sphere, whose ostensible “language” only Six could interpret) before taking a risk or coming to an important decision.

And, after a month traveling with them, soon adding Raul and Lily to the party after some hilarious, nonsensical and overly dangerous skirmishes with way too many supermutants for Cass’ tastes, the former caravaneer had grown the nerve to ask that if they may look for her disappeared caravans.

Everybody had agreed on helping her.

She was glad they had managed to recover some ammo and supplies from the four shot-down caravans they had encountered on the roads, pretty close to the locations the investigators she had hired on the past month had informed they had been seen.

Cass had been first heartbreak upon discovering that all her employees were dead and soon, she had become angry as fuck when she had noticed the consistent pattern of shooting both the human and the brahmins to ashes, knowing certainly that only an energy weapon would have been capable of doing such a thing.

Sad and also angered for her and for the innocent people who had been murdered when doing an honest job, Six had promised Cass to find the culprit.

And she, of all people, had been the first one in years to make a promise to Cass… and abide by it.

Six wasn’t good at picking locks, but she was _extraordinary_ when it came to make herself scarce around people and overhear conversations that weren’t intended for her ears.

So, she had signed for temporary employment with the Van Graffs after overhearing a talk between the King and his big mouth of a right-hand man, Pacer, about some shady business between Gloria Van Graff, a former lover of his, and the Crimson Caravans Company.

The Van Graffs had laughed in her face the first time she had presented on their local, the Silver Rush, to sign for nightly guard substitution after the former employee had… “displeased” Gloria by sticking his dick in other bodies that weren’t hers. Not for nothing Van Graff women were famous all over New Reno territory for not to be crossed and not to be cheated by their lovers even if they were the first ones that were into the polyandry practices. Each one of the sons and daughters of the family matriarch, Tiaret Van Graff, were products of different fathers.

However, due to the lacking stream of candidates at that moment, Gloria had decided to give Six some test time to see if she fit the bill.

And she had. It had been funny to watch from a distance, Boone perched on a balcony in the nearby Atomic Wrangler with his scope lens focusing on defending the girl from any creep who dared to put a finger on her while the rest of the group had stuck to strategic positions in order to raise to her aid should the other guard, a man named Simon, would proven insufficient shielding her.

However, the more drunkard, pissed off, rude and snobbish clients arrived at the local’s door, the better she behaved, never losing her cool, always dealing with them politely with a smile on her face, sweet to a point nobody left the building after making business with the Van Graffs without waving her goodbye.

From that night on forward, clearly seeing her potential, the Van Graffs had started to give her more diplomatic-oriented jobs and Six had been able not just to substantially increase the group’s laughable economy, but also to be privy to many of the family’s dark secrets.

That way she had found about how they had boycotted Cassidy Caravans’ business by means of an illegal arrangement with Alice McLafferty.

Knowing this but being unable to reach the documents that would prove their accusations without violence as the NCR surely would demand it as a condition in order to open a file case against both organizations, Six had devised a plan to bring down both the Van Graffs and McLafferty without affecting the whole Crimson Caravans Company and without making the NCR suspect a thing: first, they would attack the Silver Rush and leave no survivors who would speak ill against them. They already had the whole Freeside’s blessing on their side since Six and her group had been nothing but helpful to its people and the Van Graffs were undesirable vermin that had settled down there by force. Nobody would sell them to the NCR.

Next had been, with the aid of some explosives courtesy of Six’s unofficial allegiance with the Vault 19’s Powder Gangers, to blow up the safe’s lock where the incriminating documents had been stored.

Next had been paying the services of a good master forger that had falsified both McLafferty’s and Gloria Van Graff’s handwriting and signatures in a series of false documents not just incriminating both parties on their Cassidy Caravans boycott deal, but also the preempted assassination of its former owner, Miss Rose of Sharon Cassidy.

With those documents in hand, they had gone to the Rangers at the Mojave Outpost claiming that they had been attacked first, that they had found those documents and that they wanted satisfaction from McLafferty’s shady policies.

Premeditation murder attempt were far more serious charges that property destruction and - ironically - workers’ assassination. That, coupled with self-defense shooting testimony that ALL the Freeside inhabitants would back without hesitation… and bureaucratic _evidence_, had demoted Alice McLafferty back to Shady Sands to be legally processed.

Even Cass had been monetarily compensated by the actual owners of the Crimson Caravan Company, the Jamison Family.

And they still were well-regarded allies on the NCR’s eyes.

Nobody had done so much for Cass before.

Besides being thankful, the redhead had developed a soft spot for the girl in the last few months she had been traveling with her. The way she treated people was incredibly endearing, like they were _actual_ people and not tools to be used, itches to be scratched or even dirt to be scraped from one’s boot. And she didn’t make any distinctions between humans, ghouls or supermutants. For her, everybody was people; hence why Raul and Lily were so comfortable traveling with her. She wasn’t bothered by Raul’s rather _peculiar_ ghoulish body odor or Lily’s mental issues in the slightest; she hugged and kissed them on the cheek the same way she did with the rest.

In fact, she was sometimes so loving and open that Cass had found her affection a bit overwhelming. And she was sure that Boone wasn’t the overly affectionate type… but, for Six, he remained quiet and compliant each time she decided to hug him just because she felt like it.

And every time she found toys or sweets during their scavenging on many abandoned places, she always gave them away for free to the many poor children on the Freeside. And each dosage of Med-X or Addictol she found, she never sold but rather gifted them to the Old Mormon Fort just to help people. That had been the way she had caught Arcade’s interest in the first place, another frequent victim, along with Veronica, of her hugs and kisses. Not that any of them were complaining about it, though.

How somebody could not love a person who answered need with love and care?

How could she possibly not be sickeningly _worried_ to her guts when said person was missing?

How could she not drown herself in misery waiting, sitting on a barstool like she had done back on the Mojave Outpost’s barracks? She felt so incredibly shitty and useless that even the whiskey wasn’t helping this time.

Since her mother died, Cass hadn’t willed to worry over anybody’s welfare in all these years full of whiskey, work and sexual company to fill a greater void that, with each friend chewed and spit out by Vegas, increased a little more.

She hadn’t noticed she had been depressed until a glass of water and some aspirins had being put on her hands to clear her mind and start making herself some questioning. The answers hadn’t been pretty and the solution had been nowhere near until a certain geeky kid had come back with more water and aspirins and a renewed offer to travel with her.

Six had given her back her will to move on and look forward to what the future might have in store for her.

She wasn’t letting her down. No if she could help it. Her father would never forgive her if he ever discovered that his own daughter, a Cassidy, had forsaken a person she owed so much.

So she had gotten up from her defeated position over the counter, adjusted the brim of her cowboy hat, made a clicking sound for Rex to follow her and had stood with all her might and foul alcoholic breath in front of that cocksucker who had given them free will on the Casino Floor and had grabbed him by his shirt lapels.

“Listen, motherfucker.” – she hissed, suddenly sober, her tongue firmer than it had been in months – “Me and my friends here have been patient enough putting up with you and your crap till now… but I think that enough is enough.” – the man, tired as he seemed, was sweating profusely under that suit of his. Cass liked that. She liked better her men trembling and submissive, going clammy and tender between her expertise hands – “Either you show me where my friend is or I don’t fucking care if I end like a goddamned strainer at your brutes’ hands if that means I manage to shove my boot up your sorry…”

However, when she was about to shake him like some common bar brawler, by her side, Rex’s ears perked while raising his head, as if searching for something.

Swank, still with his shirt lapels between this fiery woman’s hands, observed fascinated as the cybernetic mutt neared one of the casino walls that had a ventilation grill a couple meters over the floor and sniffed. Could it be that the animal…?

Rex’s snout stuck to the wall that was giving away the smell he had been looking for so long since he and the friendly little human’s companions had gotten inside this odd and noisy den.

“You got something, boy?” – Cass approached the hybrid animal as the dog continued sniffing the wall, then the floorboards.

Rex barked twice, panting excitedly as he recognized the smell. It was faint, but not enough to cheat his artificially enhanced senses. He ran towards the den’s exit.

“Rex has found something!” – Cass exclaimed, earning more than one stare when the rest caught on her more intelligibly pronunciation – “C’mon!”

She hadn’t to say it twice. Even Lily moved quicker than usual (mostly due to her size) to catch on with Rex and the humans that were losing ass after the cyberdog’s barks.

However, as soon as Swank found himself alone, morning breaking through windows, his otherwise impeccable suit disheveled and sweaty and lots of work ahead to repair Benny’s little misadventure with those two problematic brats, starting with checking the Chairmen’s savings to see if there was something that could be done with the Presidential Suite, the two barstools the supermutant had slouched, and the carpets the mongrel had pawed… the now new official leader of the Chairmen combed his fingers through his hair and sighed.

Lots of bureaucratic papers awaited on his desk and now he had to devise some way to make him and his brothers trustworthy again on Big Man’s eyes. A task that depended on his next diplomatic moves with those two; in case they were still alive, that is.

He would send one of his most charming, best-looking guys to investigate and, should he managed to localize the brat couple, to extend an invitation to help themselves around the casino as much as they wished. No expenses should be spared for them as a goodwill gesture towards House and his human agents.

Damn, he needed a bath. A hot, long one.

* * *

The small elevator down the maintenance hall had gotten them below far more levels than they could have suspected. And the discovering they had made had answered, at least, one important question: how Benny had managed to escape without alerting the Strip’s cybernetic security. For, after showing his cards, they were pretty sure that House would have never allowed such a rat to escape from its hole without interposing fire and steel between the man and the Platinum Chip.

The small elevator was one straight trip either towards the thirteenth floor upwards or downwards, where they were right now.

And “downwards” had been a relatively small naked room that had sported a great hole on one of its walls that led into what looked that had been a hidden part of the now partially blocked by concrete rubble Vault 21.

Long silent and utterly empty corridors led to a handful metallic closed doors that neither of them was capable to force. So they had to follow the only logical path that, probably, had led Benny East, outside the Strip.

Taking the left side of the first corridor, they opened one by one a series of metallic doors that leaded on a straight line towards a last one that ended on a pile of concrete rubble that could be climbed on to reach the opposite side by means of a decent-sized space where a grown man would fit pretty tight but sure.

Vulpes wasn’t sure where this odd adventure would lead to, but he, despite feeling as tired as an old man, was having some fun playing with locks both from the impossible metallic doors and a few footlockers that had harbored a bit of a juicy loot on dynamite cartridges he had tossed onto some dusty military duffle bag he had found on the floor. Luckily for him, Six hadn’t asked sharing, so everything would go on his name.

He couldn’t stop thinking that they had gotten back on Benny’s track thanks to his talkative machine Yes Man. It said that it didn’t know where the Chairman had gone, but that he had escaped by means of “his secret escape elevator down the hall”.

So, the man had been expected company, after all. And he had confided these secrets to a machine. A machine he hadn’t bothered to restrict who it talked with.

Not very smart considering the half-assed plan he had managed to bake during all these last months without raising suspicion. Well, although clumsily, played.

Yes Man had proven an amazing fountain of knowledge when he had asked all the details on Benny’s obsession with the Platinum Chip: the fool was hoping that, by inserting Yes Man’s neuro-computational matrix onto the Lucky 38's mainframe, it would override House’s control over the securitrons on the Strip.

And that wasn’t the best part of the plan: in order to upgrade Mr. House’s securitrons, Benny had to reach an underground facility that was, luckily for Vulpes, situated below Fortification Hill where his Lord’s encampment had been settled.

Theoretically, said underground facility had the appropriate hardware to read the Platinum Chip. And the Legion had full control over it.

That was why he hadn’t uttered a word about hurrying after Benny. If what Yes Man said was true, the rat would end sooner or later attempting to infiltrate Caesar’s troops.

All he had to do was sending Alerio to alert Caesar and the rest of the encampment of his presence.

And, to sweeten the deal, he would send a letter with Alerio describing how vital the Courier’s presence had proven to gather this much Intel. His Lord wouldn’t have any qualms about inviting her to Fortification Hill despite her age or her gender. And nobody would argue with that.

The Courier would be immediately regarded as an ally of the Legion and the men wouldn’t dare touch a single hair of her head.

Thus, if she felt that the Legion was a community that would welcome her with open arms without having to deal with legionaries stupidly displaying the common misogynistic behavior that would surely chase her away in no time, she would end trusting them.

She would feel special, special and protected. That, Vulpes and his men would provide in abundance. With three or four Frumentarii keeping an eye on her and securing that she felt at home, there wouldn't be any unnecessary unpleasantries on the way by the hand of a rude, peas-for-brains recruit. And he was sure that Caesar would approve.

With her comfort, allegiance would be a matter of time. And she would be rewarded for her loyalty. There wasn’t any need to deceive her, just a mere… _reconditioning_ of her beliefs and point of view that he has sure Caesar himself would be delighted to explain her.

Nobody gets hurt, everybody gets what they want.

Perfect. He loved when plans got this smooth and with all the loose ends conveniently attached.

He was excited.

However, the moment they found their way back to the populated area of the Vault 21 as if they had been just exploring around a bit, Vulpes redirected their steps towards Alerio’s room and, as soon as the man opened his door and allowed Six to enter his bathroom to wash the blood from her face and take a pee, the older Frumentarius surprised Vulpes in an unsavory fashion the instant he hand him over a letter from Caesar.

Vulpes readed the contents in silence while schooling his expression to remain neutral. Alerio wasn’t exactly one of his most favored Frumentarii and the man knew it.

In fact, due to their age difference and the suspicion Vulpes had on Alerio wanting to overthrow him the same way he had done with Anguis two years ago, their relationship was a tense one. They were professionals, yes, but their silent grudge wasn’t helping that the last thing Vulpes wanted was to Alerio witnessing him losing his cool.

The letter, although written in a neutral way, carried some undertones that let him know that Caesar was impatient and a bit… _displeased_ that no reports on the Courier had arrived yet to his person. This, along with his required presence on the Camp Searchlight operation, made Vulpes’ excitation turn into slight bitter resignation.

For a moment he had forgotten that, while the golden masked Monster of the East was Caesar’s hammer to strike on his enemies, Vulpes was his finger to point example whenever the Lord deemed necessary.

A new lesson had to be taught. Now, more specifically, to the NCR.

And Vulpes _never_ failed to deliver.

Feeling rather than seeing Alerio’s eyes over him, Vulpes folded parsimoniously the letter while approaching the room’s metallic desk where he found a lighter beside a full untouched pack of cigarettes. Even if Legion laws forbid tobacco as much as it forbid chems and alcohol, the Frumentarii were dispensed and could use minimum dosage of those substances as _atrezzo_ for their _performance_ acting in order to blend with the Profligate culture. And Alerio was a master at making himself as inconspicuous as any other regular man.

Vulpes turned to face the man while the remains of the letter burned on his fingertips.

“What news on your uncle, Fox?”

_“Your uncle”_ or _“my uncle” _was the official way of referring Caesar amidst Frumentarii while incognito.

“Still on precarious health and eager to receive some news. He asked me to take a stroll towards Searchlight in order to gather a letter from his son.” – Vulpes replied nonchalantly, cautious to let the other know that he wasn’t _invited_ to accompany him on his mission – “Maybe he would like to hear about the girl I’ve met this night.”

Alerio’s eyes gleamed as he invaded Vulpes’ personal space to lean over his ear. Not close enough to touch him, but still too close for the younger man’s comfort. Alerio knew damn well that he _loathed_ physical proximity.

“So, it’s true, isn’t it? I was right.” – he whispered, a hissing satisfied undertone on his voice – “She _is_ the Courier.”

“Not a word.” – if equally low, Vulpes’ voice was a warning in itself – “And no questioning, no touching, no _innuendoes_, no nothing as soon as she gets out of that door. Not until _he_ reaches a conclusion about her.”

“Are you really going to ask _him_? Is _she_ worth the effort?” – the incredulous tone on Alerio’s voice was fractured the moment he alluded to her gender – “Does _she_ knows… or is _she_ as _cute_ and _innocent_ as _she_ looks?”

_Stupid_ and _ignorant_ were the real connotations behind his words. Despite being a Frumentarius, Alerio was Legion through and through, too much pride to see that a woman was a sentient being capable of reaching her own conclusions and form her own opinions.

That was why Vulpes knew better than to underestimate her.

He didn’t had to answer Alerio when, as if on a cue, she emerged from the bathroom clean and fresh as a morning glory.

“Sorry, was thirsty.” – she said while wiping her mouth of water remnants – “Your turn.” – she indicated Vulpes with a toothy smile.

Inclining his head, the young man entered the bathroom to clean himself of the excess of dried blood staining his mouth and hands and Six found herself alone with the strange thirty-something man that was giving her a _very_ odd look.

Six had disliked him from the very moment she and _Zorro_ had gotten into his rented room. Unlike _Zorro_ who, despite his previous demonstration, was now _stiffy but adorkably weird _on her book… this one's weirdness was unsettling, and the shady air around him wasn't something she was eager to discover. She just wanted she and _Zorro_ getting the Hell outta here.

She didn’t trust this one.

As soon as Vulpes emerged from the bathroom and saw Six’s tiny hands around the ears of the duffle bag while handling it to him, he immediately caught on her hurry to leave the room. Undoubtedly, thanks to Alerio and his constant _creepy staring_. Urgh.

They bade their goodbyes while Vulpes slide a small piece of paper to his Frumentarius’ hand where he instructed him to take his place tomorrow morning on the Gomorrah to keep an eye on the Omertas.

The rest was a quiet although pleasant walk upstairs towards Vault 21’s exit.

However, the moment they got outside, a loud barking welcomed them while a pair of thin but strong arms encircled Six’s small frame.

“Shit, Six, shit…” – the unmistakable reek of booze and a streak of red hair tickling her nose informed Six that she was in Cass’ arms – “Don’t do this to me in your _motherfucking_ life never again, you hear me? Never!”

“Cass…?” – Six whispered, encircling the other woman’s thin frame as well – “You sound…”

“_Sober._” – the former caravaneer replied grumpily – “And it’s your stupid ass’ fault!”

“Hey, leave the rest of us a bit.” – the amicable voice of Vero broke the tension as she slide an arm around Six’s back as well, pinching one of her cheeks playfully – “I also want a hug as compensation for the bad night you have given us all.”

“I’d rather prefer a nice long _reprimand_ as compensation.” – Arcade’s mother-hen voice let Six know that he wasn’t happy at all – “What did you think you were doing, Six?”

The girl, once the two women released her from their shared embrace, looked to the tips of her combat boots. She had _worried _them, she had _scared_ them. She deserved it.

“Whoa, and who’s this?” – Cass elbowed her while casting an appreciative look towards Vulpes, who was being thoroughly sniffed all around by Rex.

But soon, the young man got cornered against the Vault 21 Gift Shop’s entrance and paler than usual as the hulking mass of muscles of a certain Nightkin got in front of him.

Everybody held their breaths until Lily’s big arms opened at both sides.

**“Jimmy? Little Jimmy - my, how you're grown up!”** – the supermutant exclaimed happily – **“Come over here and give your grandma some sugar!”**

At that very moment, Vulpes didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: here we go! Six has gotten the OK in Vulpes' book, Vulpes is overthinking how to deal with her, Arcade is a mother hen and Lily being Lily ^^  
I know that I've written too much for such a little amount of time taking place on the fic, but I needed to introduce some concepts and characters' motivations and backgrounds to establish a solid story.  
I know these mammoth chapters have a lot of information... but I find myself incapable of writing smaller ones as I do not want this ending with 40 or more chapters.  
We will be discovering much more on Six's and Vulpes' pasts while they get used to each other being around. Some reviewing or criticizing would be swell, but I am happy that I've managed to get some people interested so far! Thank you for your support!  
Any questions I, will answer them gladly.  
PD: BTW, the idea behind having Lily looking at Vulpes and seeing Jimmy was inspired by this cute fic: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7826690/1/Cookies-for-Jimmy  
(Not that Vulpes is really Jimmy here, LOL).


	5. Say it right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains graphic descriptions of gore, violence, animal mistreatment and hints of suicidal behavior.  
If you're sensitive to these topics, either don't read or proceed with caution.

* * *

As Vulpes Inculta, leader and the greatest of Caesar’s Frumentarii, was bracing himself to be crushed, his eyes popping from his skull and his bones being turned to ashes under a huge supermutant’s tidal love he hadn’t asked for the life of him; he felt supreme relief the instant a smaller figure got in-between him and his impending doom.

“Granny!” – the ‘Vero’ woman’s voice in front of him exclaimed a bit too cheerfully, trying to disguise her nervousness – “Jimmy and Six had been playing around all night and now they’re hungry and tired. Right?” – she asked, both to Vulpes and Six, who had gotten by the Frumentarius’ side just in case she had to pull him off Lily’s reach.

“Yes.” – the two youngsters answered in unison, crossing fingers that Lily would abandon her plan to crush the life out of him.

The Nightkin blinked and, taking on both Vulpes’ and Six’s sleep-deprived visages, she bought it.

**“Awwwww, grandma had been missing her little pumpkin so much she has forgotten baking some cookies.”** – she said apologetically – **“But don’t you worry, children. Grandma will start preparing them as soon as we get home. That and a nice meal! You poor dears look starved!”**

Vulpes directed a sidelong look towards Six, who mouthed _“Don’t fight it”_ and signaled to him with her eyes to slide along with her aside so he could get out of the supermutant’s reach.

And the Frumentarius didn’t know how he got into this huge mess in the first place, but he ended flanked by Six, the redhead and the dog, which was still sniffing him, while ‘Vero’ distracted the huge Nightkin by means of chatting her ear off. The other two men, the NCR sniper and the Followers’ doctor, followed them silently while exchanging glances between them.

Boone was unusually silent and his frown was extra hard over his aviator sunglasses, piercing the newcomer’s nape as if he were pointing his rifle at him. Arcade could tell by a single look that it wasn’t just that he didn’t trust him, Boone had by principle not trusting a single soul unless they proved him wrong over time; but that he also resented the young man for Six’s disappearance.

Since the group’s early formation, Boone had been always overprotective with Six and that hadn’t been any news for anybody. He had this fatherly/big brother instinct that only applied to the girl like she really were his family; and this evening had proven a stressful one for the ex-sniper as he hadn’t been able to find her, relying on Rex’s nose and directing dirty glares towards all The Tops’ staff, eager for them to give him cause to start shooting.

Boone was a very private person who rarely shared his thoughts outside mere practical issues or tactics when they had found themselves charging into trouble, but Arcade could only imagine how much Six’s temporal disappearance had affected him.

Boone was all steely front, never giving a piece of his mind and always looking you in the eye to catch you lying… but, underneath all those protective layers that completed an almost impenetrable armor of discipline and no-nonsense demeanor, Arcade had knew from minute one since he had incorporated to the group that Boone still had wounds that bleed inside that armor because, from time to time, those very wounds’ blood seeped through its tiny slits in various forms that always derived from seeing Six getting one of her headaches and the man looking utterly miserable because he couldn’t do a thing to help her, to seeing her wounded and/or poisoned and him losing his cool completely.

Arcade still recalled that time on Black Mountain, where the entire group had tried to sneak under Tabitha’s nose, and those detours had gotten Six far too close to a nexus full of broken radioactive barrels that had gotten, by means of inhalation, right to her bloodstream.

Once they’d found a way to secure Tabitha’s Mister Handy, Rhonda, into Raul’s jail/workshop; Six had managed to find some important mechanical pieces in order to aid in the robot’s reparations that she, in collaboration with the cranky ghoul, had accomplished bringing Rhonda to life again.

With Tabitha happy leaving her _“State of Utobitha”_ on Black Mountain accompanied by her robot “friend”, as soon as the odd pair had disappeared from sight, Six’s tiny frame had ended between Raul’s arms the very moment the radiation in her bloodstream had knocked her off.

Six and her damned stubbornness, being silent when something wasn’t right, was still an issue nobody had managed to get out of her yet despite being a constant source of trouble for the teen. Her poisoning had been grave and everyone had covered their faces with their hands as soon as Arcade had given her a scan with her Pip-Boy.

Everyone… but Boone.

Boone had limited himself to stare at her unconscious face as if he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she could die and, two days later, after Arcade had managed to clean her system by means of loads and loads of RadAway they, fortunately, had been storing away on their packs… she had opened her eyes and, after muttering some weak apology, Boone’s arms had encircled her and had not released her for a good hour. Both had remained silent, him embracing her weakened form, her rubbing his hands and forearms as if she were trying to comfort him.

Neither of them had spoken a word about the incident, but from that day on forward, each time the Pip-Boy’s Geiger Counter beeped from Six’s left wrist, Boone was always adamant that they turned around to search for other ways to reach whatever location they would be looking for. And Six, just for the mere sake of not worry him, always gave in.

Given all these precedents, Arcade could even understand why Boone now would likely be fuming over Six’s new companion and why he, right now, hated his guts more than any other thing in this world.

Besides, said new companion, aside from being albino, a condition he wasn't to blame for, had an odd air around him that didn’t sit quite right with Arcade.

The way he carried himself, even with the due stiffness his encounter with Lily had left on his posture, had something unnatural. No young man, and even less being as tall as this one was, walked so damn straight, so poised. Arcade himself was way taller than the average human male and he always caught himself slouching towards people so he could make eye contact and understand what they said.

This stranger, however, worked more with his eyes rather than with his body language. He was used to having full attention from his interlocutors, so he didn’t have the need to slouch to communicate.

With just observing how he walked between Six and Cass, Arcade already had a sketched pattern about the young man’s attitude.

And there was something about him that made the doctor _nervous_.

He couldn’t put a finger on what it was _exactly_, but he silently agreed with Boone that the newcomer wasn’t to be trusted. Not until he proved them otherwise.

Nonetheless, Six seemed happy walking beside the new arrival, tinkering a bit with her Pip-Boy as they were walking.

“Hey, Six.” – the Followers’ doctor called while eyeing surprisingly the unfamiliar new device – “What happened with your Pip-Boy?”

She turned around while still walking backwards playfully, a toothy smile upon her lips.

“He helped me recover it.” – she stated, signaling her new companion with her head – “This is my original Pip-Boy. He got the other in exchange of his help.”

“I see.” – Arcade replied while eyeing the young man’s left forearm, Six’s old device wrapped around it.

Meanwhile, the albino’s cerulean eyes landed first on his hard-earned price, then briefly on Arcade, his gaze saying _“Mine” _without having to utter a word. So mercenary of him, Arcade mused, but what could one expect from people outside the Followers? Six was a rare exception and the rest of the group only abided by her decisions because they liked and cared about her, not because they were particularly charitable.

However, Six usually had a good nose for people. Until now, all the disparate members of their ragtag group had proven to be, if not good Samaritans, decent people in search of a cause greater than themselves. Perhaps this new guy would be sticking around for a while?

Six seemed to be under the impression that he should because, once they reached the doors of the Lucky 38, the pale young man was the only one who went to a halt instead of coming with them, uncertainty showing on his blue eyes until the girl signaled him to follow.

Surprise flickered briefly on his pupils, still eyeing the building as if not knowing whether to accept the invitation or not until Lily’s raspy voice called.

**“Come in, sweetheart! Grandma promises it’s safe!”**

To any other person, the Nightkin’s statement would have chased them away immediately.

But this guy, apparently, wasn’t any other person.

The instant he got inside the bicentenary casino and his eyes adapted to the gloom while following the flicks of dust permeating the air, Six’s smile had gotten Cheshire Cat proportions.

* * *

Sunny Smiles, after five scarce hours of disquiet sleep, was making her usual rounds on Goodsprings’ outskirts both to clean the yard of the old schoolhouse from unwanted giant mantis nymphs building a nest on there and to keep an eye on the small Powder Gangers group that had took residence on one of the old abandoned houses a few weeks ago.

Since that fella Ringo’s sudden appearing out of nowhere saying that his caravan had been attacked and that bad men were after him, the town’s usual peace had gotten on a tight leash when one evening a dude who had introduced himself as Joe Cobb had stood at the Saloon’s bar counter first asking, then threatening Trudy that he wanted to know about Ringo’s whereabouts.

Trudy, who had been the one giving the caravaneer asylum at the old gas station, had been unfazed by his threats, but Sunny knew a dangerous man when she seen one, so she had intervened with Cheyenne baring her fangs towards Cobb, inviting him to keep his hands where both woman and dog could see them. The man had barked that _“he’d done being nice and that if they didn’t hand Ringo over soon, he was gathering some friends to burn this town to the ground”._

After that, he had disappeared into the night to reappear the next morning backed by other six or seven Powder Gangers.

They hadn’t made a move on the town yet, but Sunny wasn’t taking any chances. She had already consulted with most of the townspeople and, if Chet was agreeing that they should hand over the man, Trudy wasn’t as convinced. Half the settlers wanted to sit the situation out, but they also didn’t want to be raided by a group of NCR ex-convicts if they showed weakness or cowardice.

Doc Mitchell had agreed to lend some medical supplies in case the town ended opposing the criminals and Easy Pete, while not keen on sharing his dynamite stock, said that they were bad people and bad people should be dealt with just one way.

However, unless they decided to attack the town, nobody was moving a finger, so Sunny had self-imposed the task to watch them should they start acting fishy.

That was why at seven in the morning, with little sleep on her account, big eye bags and a small campfire roasting some nice gecko steak both for her and her dog as breakfast, she immediately pointed her gun to a tall silhouette that had stopped before her, casting a menacing shadow that blocked her way towards Cobb and his men.

“I don’t know what you've lost here, stranger, but I am not the person you should be asking about anything.” – she warned, not liking a bit what her eyes saw and what her nose caught in the air – “Try Trudy at the Saloon if you are thirsty, or Chet on the General Store if you need some supplies. Otherwise, hit the road.”

Milky blue eyes regarded, first her gun, then she and the dog with impervious indifference like the threat that the loaded weapon aiming at his chest presented was nothing.

“I am looking for a girl.” – he replied drily, his vocal cords extra raspy not just due to his evident condition, but also from the dusty roads of this damnable desert. A week since his arrival and he already despised the Mojave with all his might.

Sunny’s brown eyes squinted, studying the stranger from head to toe. She had not the humor, nor the patience to deal with him right now. Her gecko steak was already too roasted for her tastes and the rotten smell coming from this herculean necrotic redhead despite the thick layer of leather mercenary armor he wore was making her appetite smaller and smaller the more seconds he stayed on her nose’s reach. Cheyenne wasn’t also happy if her bared fangs and stiff tail were any indication.

“No ghoul girls here, sorry.” – was her also dry reply.

“She is not a ghoul. A human like you.” – he said, his face inhumanly still – “Seventeen, Caucasian, black hair, black eyes. 5,1 feet tall, very thin. Wears a Pip-Boy.”

Sunny’s eyes didn’t betray the sudden wariness she felt the moment she recalled the petite young thing that had been shot in the head by men that were after some package of hers five months ago.

First those thugs… now this beast of a ghoul carrying a shotgun and more combat knifes on his person than she can count? Why such monsters were so intent on giving chase a sweet thing like her as if she were some sort of radstag doe? No way was she cluing this beast where she had headed.

Besides, he also had a Pip-Boy on his account. Help, her ass.

“We are a small town, not many ‘girls’ around here. Sorry.” – she replied, taking the cooked meat from the campfire to pick a generous piece with cautious fingers that she threw to her dog, implying that the conversation was over. She wished her body language hadn’t given him a reason to suspect.

As soon as the necrotic turned a heel and got out of her sight, Sunny was able to inhale onto the desert smoky scent once more and willed her shoulders to relax again. She took a bite from her steak that she accompanied with a swing of fresh water and didn’t give farther thoughts to that strange encounter.

Little did she know that the redhead ghoul had other plans as he redirected his steps towards the house occupied by the Powder Gangers.

* * *

As they had stepped inside the dusty gloom of the Lucky 38 that smelled of stale air and naphthalene, Vulpes’ eyes had been vigilant, taking note of all the details his sight could process about the building’s infrastructure, searching for ventilation grills and other possible weaker points he could exploit to his benefit.

He hadn’t been very convinced when the girl had signaled him to follow, but this was an opportunity any Frumentarius shouldn’t and _couldn’t_ let it pass just like that.

In less than twenty-four hours his plans about extending Caesar’s Mark to the infamous Courier from the Mojave Express had been frustrated to only end much better than they had originally started: the Courier was a girl, alright, but a girl whose company he didn’t find _repellent_. That was quite _something_ coming from him.

Also, incidentally, said girl seemed to find him as equally as agreeable to even extend an invitation inside one of the best-guarded fortresses in the entire Mojave.

Providing that this wasn’t a trap to ambush him in order to gather Intel from the Legion, the desert fox was now a very lucky fox.

However, his confident attitude wavered a little when the group decided to separate in two in order to not overburden the elevator that would take them to the Presidential Suite floor.

He had sought the Courier with his eyes, clearly wanting to stay close to the only familiar face there, but the sniper was having none of it as his big calloused hands had taken hold of the girl’s bony shoulders, directing a steely stare towards Vulpes as if daring him to question. The Followers’ doctor and the redhead had gotten beside them, quickly defining the groups.

So he was left basically with a small woman and a dog as a barrier between him and the supermutant.

They had been the first ones to take the elevator and the short course upwards had been tense as the big mutated woman (if the _thing_ could truly still being considered a woman) had kept calling him ‘Jimmy’ while saying that he was such a good boy and how proud her mother should be of him.

Vulpes had known better than correcting her.

The other present woman, Veronica he had learned was her full name, had directed him more than once sympathetic glances when he had put up stoically with the Nightkin’s, Lily, odd antics when she had straightened his bolo tie and put a big pale blue hand over his head to mess with his white waves, depicting in the most surreal way a kind of maternal affection directed to this ‘Jimmy’ person whose role she had decided to adjudge him.

“Do not take it into account.” – Veronica had whispered him once they were out of the elevator and Lily had gone towards the kitchen area to start preparing the promised cookies – “For what I’ve gathered from Six and Arcade, Lily suffers from Schizophrenia, a kind of dementia apparently very common amongst Nightkin derived from their constant use of Stealth Boys.” – she had explained to a silent Vulpes – “She has very short-term memory and has hallucinations about her grandchildren, Becky and Jimmy.”

Vulpes said nothing but directed a vacant look towards the door where the supermutant had disappeared. The cyberdog, having been by his side since the minute its nose had spotted the young man, whined softly and licked his hand.

Distracted by the animal’s attentions, Vulpes crouched at its visual height and allowed the canine to sniff his face and hair, earning tender licking when he scratched behind its ears.

The ding that came some minutes after informed him that the Courier and the rest of her cohorts had reached the Presidential Suite floor.

“Rex likes you.” – her voice told him from behind – “It is fortunate that he hasn’t got a look at you when you were wearing your hat. He hates hats.”

Turning to her while getting up, Vulpes caught the sniper’s frown and the guarded expression on the Followers’ doctor.

However, the redhead had a more lay off attitude towards him.

“Sooo, Six, are we getting introductions here with your new _boy-friend_ or should we just keep calling him ‘Jimmy’?” – she asked cheekily.

Six’s nose, cheeks, and neck got immediately an angry shade of pink, but other than that, she answered composed.

“Right!” – she exclaimed, eyeing briefly Vulpes should he wished to speak up. When she saw that he didn’t, she continued – “Guys, this is _Zorro Salvaje_. We’ve met on the Gomorrah, he helped me both with my migraine and to recover my old Pip-Boy from Benny.”

Then she proceeded to introduce him to the rest, explaining what happened on their visit to The Tops and how they had managed to escape through a secret route while they got towards the kitchen to have a proper breakfast. Mercifully, she left out his Legion allegiance out of the picture.

Her companions threw to her lots and lots of questions, pondering where Benny could be right now and how to proceed from now on forward as they sat at the kitchen communal table. The amazing breakfast Lily cooked for them could have fed an entire Legion regiment. And men in the Legion were used to eat in _great_ quantities as almost all of the legionaries were young men, many still on their growth stage.

Famished both from his not-so-little adventure with the Courier and sleep-deprived fatigue, Vulpes wolfed down two Brahmin steaks and half the pancakes’ plate Lily had cooked with just the right amount of sugar and milk to keep them tasty and tender.

“So, _Zorro Salvaje_.” – the redhead woman, Cass, commented while being the only one drinking alcohol at the table – “That sounds tribal, Imma right?” – she asked while Vulpes’ eyes raised slowly from his plate to put on what Profligates called a ‘poker face’ – “Hey, no worries, pal!” – she laughed, raising both her hands in a surrender gesture – “My Mom was a tribal as well. She was from East of the Colorado, though, not sure what tribe. Was before the time Cesar rounded them up, made them Legion.” - though this last statement had evident displeasure on her voice, she continued amicably – “She walked a hell of a way until she crossed paths with my Dad and he convinced her to stop walking. And lucky for me, he was a horny old bastard.” – she added, grinning.

Vulpes eyed Six, who was sitting next to him, as she buried her flustered face between her hands, mortified that her friend would be making a poor impression on someone that she had the inkling that didn’t partake on inappropriate displays of sex humor.

But Vulpes, while not changing his hieratic expression, deigned an answer. After all, this was their and not his territory. He had to blend in.

“Our tribe dissolved years ago, mostly due to the quick expansion of the Legion.” – he was being careful now. Out of habit, he could end naming Caesar by his Latin pronunciation and that would raise suspicion among people used to call him ‘Cesar’ – “We moved from South Utah to Arizona; then, when the expansion grew, we traveled West to California where we got disbanded. Each man to their own, the NCR glad to assimilate the _uneducated_ and turn them into _model citizens_.” – he added, careful to imprint his voice with sarcasm instead of disgust.

Six had raised her head from her hands, clearly taken off guard hearing him disclosing a private part of his life, no matter if half was invented, his voice sounded sincere. Nonetheless, Cass laughed while Boone deigned an unamused grunt.

“Yeah.” – she nodded, raising her whiskey glass in agreement – “NCR, right? Herding and _domesticating_ people like cattle. Not that the Legion alternative would be much better, though.”

He had to agree with her on that, fully aware of what meant to a tribal woman being assimilated by the Legion.

However, while the Republic gave men and women equal rights, they lacked a purpose higher than recreating the American pre-War society, with all the corruption, vices and bureaucratic flaws centered on individualism instead of the common good that had led to the nuclear Armageddon in the first place. Caesar’s Legion, on the other hand, made men loyal and stronger by means of not pampering them, forcing them to either adapt or die, giving them a higher purpose where the state was not just a virtue, but the _only_ virtue at all… however, despite being a well-trained army whose soldiers’ loyalty was unquestionable, their quick expansion had taken a toll on their social development where children were exclusively raised to be either soldiers or breeders; men were, if disciplined, severely lacking on the brains department for very few of them were educated; and women took the worst role of all being the bearers of new generations of soldiers and being always at their disposition, whether they liked it or not.

If everything went according to Caesar’s vision, the Legion would end not assimilating the Republic, but rather _fusing_ with it. Thesis and Antithesis to form a mix of both, taking out the weaknesses and implanting the stronger points onto one new nation, a new Synthesis.

And the NCR would contribute with their laws and their social structure to make the Legion not just stronger, but also more _efficient_.

Vulpes could only but hope that the Legion would retain NCR’s gender equality (at least legally, for having women soldiers would only increase the raping rates as many legionaries would find intimidating having a woman as a colleague on the battlefield), so when he decided to take a bride (not that he was in any hurry despite Caesar’s impatience for him to contribute to the Legion with his genes, as he expected from every last legionary on fertile age) she wouldn’t have to be subjected to slavery and unwillingness. He rather preferred a wife he could talk with instead of having a zombie saying _“yes, husband” _to each decision he would make, a wife who would give him the finger from time to time if he ended getting unreasonable. All of that was far better than partaking in the mistreatment and raping of a victim just for the sake of reproduction. He had seen enough of that already.

Besides, he thought of certain _someone_ who would benefit from such a change… or so he hoped.

That was why, despite all the sins Vulpes Inculta knew he had on his back and would continue to commit, despite knowing he probably wouldn’t see the full change, the full Synthesis taking form, he would die in peace knowing that he had contributed with his service to its creation.

And, if such a Synthesis would not take hold on Humankind’s sterile ground, he would die with less bile on his soul knowing he had managed to take as much blood, fire, and tears as he could with him.

He would excuse himself with either side of the spectrum, selling his best or worst version to the world was easy; not for nothing, he was the most renamed liar of the entire Legion.

From being the candid idealist to the uncaring monster, it didn't make any difference to him. Selfish or selfless, good or evil, monster or human, boy or man… everything was just the point of view of the eye that looks.

But he will never say that he was sorry.

“_Bueno, ya no te hagas más el pato, güero._” – Raul spoke suddenly, leaving stunned looks around as he spoke in his native Mexican jargon – “_Con ése nombre… ¿hablas bien el español?_” _**(1)**_

Vulpes raised a brow.

“_¿Ya vienes de hocicón a que te suelte la sopa, vato?_” _**(2)**_ – he replied, recalling some of those colloquial expressions the neighbor tribe used when they exchanged Yao guai and green gecko hides and meat for daturana roots, banana yucca and some vegetables the other tribe planted. He had been present in those exchanges since he had been five as his father deemed him intelligent enough to start learning numbers in transactions. All the people from the neighbor tribe had been from Hispanic ancestry, so they had conserved their original language almost intact.

Or so the Malpais Legatus had said once.

Meanwhile, for the first time since they had known Raul when Six had helped him getting out of his imprisonment at Tabitha’s hands, the ghoul shocked the entire group by starting coughing and laughing his ass off in all earnest.

_“¡Me gusta este chavo!_” – he exclaimed in between coughs and laughs while pointing an index towards Vulpes – _“¡Jodido chistoso!_” **_(3)_**

Lily gently patted him on his back so he wouldn’t choke on his coffee.

“What the hell did they just said?” – asked Cassidy, switching her befuddled eyes from the ghoul to the now smirking young man.

Veronica at her right side shrugged while smiling. It was so rare seeing Raul losing his shit…

Six, whose Spanish knowledge derived more from the Castilian branch, had gotten hold on their words only by context, but she could tell that _Zorro’s_ impersonation of Mexican Spanish had been a really good attempt, thus why Raul was having such a good time.

She directed an amused look first to the aforementioned necrotic, who was still laughing; then Arcade, who seemed more relaxed hearing the newcomer joking with the sourest member of their group – not to count Boone, who was still brooding while he chewed on a Brahmin steak as he gulped down his third coffee mug, of course.

Finally, she settled her eyes on _Zorro_.

And he seemed relaxed, just like he had been with her on the rooftop.

She was glad he could become comfortable around her allies. That would make things easier.

Once they finished the enormous breakfast, some got the task of clearing the table and storing the leftovers in the fridge while others got the task of cleaning the kitchen.

_Zorro_ and her ended elbow to elbow (figuratively, of course, giving the height difference) washing dishes. Legion or not, every recruit had washed dishes and cleaned latrines once in a while either as communal work or punishment.

“Can I see your Geiger Counter metrics?” – she whispered after a while, extending her hand as if asking permission that she could touch him.

He made no move to allow her check his device, but squinted his eyes distrustfully instead. He already knew what she was asking for and it wasn’t her business. _His_ Pip-Boy, _his_ private medical record, _his_ health.

Biting her lower lip nervously, Six retired her hand.

“Look…” – she started, terribly unsure – “If your earlier metrics on rads are true, you will need medical attention sooner or later… and it is very possible that the Psychojet Benny injected to you has created some degree of addiction in your brain.” – oh, he wasn’t happy with the current conversation, she could tell just by looking at his stiff posture – “I just wanted to offer you the possibility of getting treatment for both. Arcade is a doctor and we have both RadAway and Addictol to treat that.” – but seeing that he still looked distrustful, she pressed – “Free of charge, you pigheaded dummy! I’m not the type who cashes in favors, just to let you know.”

Vulpes stayed silent, still frowning and still as tense as an angry cat about to make a scratchy mess out of your face. How incredibly moody and frustrating this guy could get!

“Fine.” – she deadpanned, wiping her hands of soap foam on a kitchen cloth and ready to leave for her dorm until a long hand grabbed her by the elbow.

“What do you intend to get out of this?” – he asked, his voice a mere whisper – “I am supposed to be impressed? _Flattered_, perhaps?” – his voice became a hissing, annoyance clear in his eyes – “That’s your game?”

“What are you talking about?” – she asked, aware of the venom seeping from his words.

“Do not play me for a fool, Courier.” – he replied acidly – “For if experience with your ilk has taught me something, is that nobody does nothing for another human being without expecting something in exchange.” – he hissed, clearly expecting the girl wanting _that something_ out of him if the two previous occasions when people had called him _“her boyfriend”_ and she had blushed were any indication. After all, Profligate women were after one thing – “Now, with this being said, I’ll ask you once more: what do you intend to get out of me in exchange of your… _generosity_?” – he spat the last word – “Oh, and do not bother lying to me. I am trained to _lie_, so I can tell when other people _lie_ to me as well.”

However, when her big eyes mutated from incredulity and astonishment to hurt and sadness instead of shame or defensiveness, Vulpes’ grip on her elbow faltered.

“Nothing.” – she muttered – “I… I do not want anything from you. I…” – _I only want a friend _– “I thought you would… feel better if those poisonings, one of them I am part responsible of for making you step into my mess, would just disappear.” – she gulped, finding this extremely difficult without revealing her true intentions that, very possibly, would make him laugh at her infantile foolishness – “I don’t know what kind of… medical treatment you have where you come from, but if it helps you to live better and more years, it couldn’t hurt, right?”

He wasn’t convinced, but either she was as good at lying as him… or she was telling the truth.

Anyway, even if she truly wanted to have him, he would be a fool rejecting a possible alliance with her by means of sexual intercourse, thus, an open door to manipulation.

She wasn’t really his type, but that hadn’t posed a problem before. _Attraction_ had nothing to do with _stimulation_.

Given this, his outrage was totally out of place, he was an agent, he had done this before and, even if keeping a _regular schedule_ with a particular _bed partner_ was a first time for him, he could make it work as long as it benefits Caesar.

However, a little part of him that he didn’t wish to acknowledge, had been feeling so at ease around her that now having his _“Profligates are not to be trusted” _policy renewed felt somehow… disappointing.

No matter. Those were the thoughts of an immature, silly boy instead of the thoughts of Caesar’s greatest Frumentarius. He had to focus.

What he had managed to gather about her demeanor was that she wasn’t particularly thrown off by where his loyalties lied, but she had kept those very loyalties out of the conversation with her companions.

That told him two things: one, that her companions didn’t have a positive view on the Legion and she was avoiding a possible confrontation.

And two: that she wanted to have him around by avoiding said confrontation. For what purpose, he couldn’t tell just yet. He had known her less than a day, and yet she had managed to make him overthink things. To make him loose his guarded demeanor.

It was probably due to her transparency when it had come to the loads of Intel he had gathered without her trying to stop him. She made him feel like she was a sort of a friend of his.

And that was how… she attracted people to join her cause.

Manipulation, that had to be. Manipulation was something Vulpes could understand.

Manipulation was something he could deal with.

_Clever, clever little girl._ – he thought malignly, directing a knowing look towards the still big-eyed Courier – _Now I know how you operate._

Very well, two could play this game.

“Hands off.” – a rough third voice made Six jump a bit while Vulpes’ frown deepened as he faced the shorter but much more bulkier man in front of them – “I said take your _fucking_ hands off her unless you want a third hole in your nose.”

“It’s okay, Boone.” – Six’s soft voice aimed to appease the sniper. The girl was quick assessing situations; Vulpes had to give her that – “He’s not hurting me or anything like that. We were just talking about…”

“I don’t care what were you talking about.” – Boone cut her mid-sentence – “But it can be discussed without touching.” – he sentenced, no room left for discussion on this one with him – “So either he puts his hands where I can see them NOW, or this is gonna get _nasty_.”

At that very moment, Vulpes’ pride had almost gotten the worst of him and he had bitten down his tongue to prevent giving the NCR dog a piece of his mind. The man was like a loyal hound that was defending what he thought a helpless pup.

He could respect that, even if he didn’t respect the man himself.

So he let go of her elbow, his fingertips briefly caressing her forearm as she dropped the limb. The invitation was there, now she had only to take it and show him what she got.

Nevertheless, she had now this evasive look on her eyes, that were looking anywhere but his blue ones, the heavy hands of the sniper got hold again of her bony shoulders.

But Vulpes wasn’t done just yet with the situation. He was playing a game after all.

“Very well, Courier Six.” – he said, giving each word some weight so both his listeners were paying attention. Words were his world, words were his weapon – “I will take up your offer on medical services, if that pleases you so.”

The girl raised her head, looking this time intently into his eyes. She was _so good_ playing at her game.

“You… you will?” – she asked, the strange hopeful look again on her visage – “Oh… good!” – she exclaimed, too enthusiastic for her own good, too enthusiastic to be genuine – “Seek Arcade on the guest dorms or the recreational area. Tell him to give you a check with your Pip-Boy, he will know what you mean. Tell him that I send you, okay?” – again, the toothy smile, as if nothing had happened between them.

She could play others with her apparent innocence given that she lacked the beauty to get _under their skin_ through other paths… but Vulpes wasn’t fooled.

Not anymore. He had seen how she had played Swank. Given enough time and experience, she would make a formidable spy.

_Nice way to put your Curriculum on the table, girl._

Vulpes then willed himself to nod in thanks before taking his leave with all the elegance he could muster, his move already left over the chessboard, abandoning the kitchen with the man and the girl alone.

“You okay, girlie?”

Turning around so she could face the sniper, Six’s thin arms encircled the midsection of the first human being who had taken up her offer to travel with her without asking questions, without doubting.

Boone had never let her down in these long months traveling the impervious Mojave.

“I’m sorry.” – she mumbled while burying her face in the crook of his neck – “I’m always worrying you.”

Boone’s calloused hands came in contact with her shoulders and her nape. Cass was always saying that Boone was an incredibly awkward person, the awkward type that turned all the good moods off, the kind of awkward that earned more distancing than bonding.

Cass didn’t know Boone at all.

Despite passing more time sharing jokes and girlish stuff with Vero the most, Boone was the one who, in truth, was the closest to Six.

Both had lost their families in an unfair way that had left deep scarring on their lives, both had known better times and both had hit the bottom end to just start getting upwards again painfully slow.

And most important: both had secrets. Secrets they had not shared, secrets that were under the surface.

Wordless secrets for a wordless acknowledgment that they were in front of an equal.

A wordless truce between soldiers, a wordless association between two people so different they, under other circumstances, wouldn’t have exchanged a single word.

She had known, and for that very reason, she had convinced the old Ranger to help her lockpicking Jeannie May’s strongbox by night, when she was absent from her post at the Dino Dee-lite Motel.

And Boone had known, and for that very reason, he had accompanied her on her adventures even if the people she talked with didn’t sit well with his NCR upbringing. He wasn’t there to question her moves to obtain revenge, something she mercifully had provided to him, but to aid her on her quest, to provide her the same comfort she had gifted him with after dealing with what had happened to his wife.

After all, snipers worked in pairs.

“I prefer to fret about you like the paranoid old bastard I am than attending your funeral.” – he replied to the girl’s words – “So you better get used to it.”

She smiled as her arms squeezed him tighter.

He didn’t reciprocate. After all, if he squeezed her the way he wanted, he would end breaking her.

She definitely needed to eat more.

* * *

Joe Cobb’s last cigarette was burning down his throat a tad too fast for his tastes.

And he hadn’t more shit to smoke unless he started with honey mesquite leaves.

He sported a split lip and a few bruises while the idiot who had tried to slide his last pack from his pocket got a black eye, a broken nose and more hematomas than he could count. Served him well, the fucker.

Oh, well, men need get make remember who’s boss from time to time.

Same he was the very instant he got the lips of a fiery shotgun kissing his neck from behind.

“Don’t move.” – a raspy voice coupled with a rotten smell got drilled into his five senses while the fucking smoke got wasted on the ground by his traitorous trembling lips – “And tell your underlings to keep their hands on their dicks unless they want them full of holes from this point on.”

Joe signaled his men not to touch their guns. His neck felt unbearably hot against the gun’s barrel.

“The fuck you want, zombie?” – he braved, pretty sure that the voice and the distinguishable odor pertained to a necrotic.

Pretty sure that if the barrel’s metallic lips got any closer to his neck, they would end French-kissing.

“Proposing a deal.” – the raspy voice replied.

“With a fucking gun pointing at my goddamned noggin?” – Cobb’s voice sounded incredulous – “Got already brainrot or what, ghoul?”

“No.” – the necrotic replied again, his monotone voice carried an underlying warning – “But keep goading and the brains that are getting splattered and rotten under the sun will be yours.”

“Fine.” – Joe acquiesced, knowing very well whose dick was the longest now over the table – “Got a name?”

“My name is not important.” – said the ghoul while rounding slowly Cobb’s neck until he positioned before him. Joe’s sweat was already cold just by looking at his interlocutor’s breadth. The ghoul was a fucking monster full of rotten bulging muscles and more than seven feet tall – “But I represent certain interests that need this population conveniently _controlled_ so they are more willing answering questions.” – he explained pointedly – “And you and your men just happen to be the right tools I need for this endeavor.”

“Controlling the town, you say? What the hell for?” – Joe asked – “Just farmers and ranchers out here. Not much worth stealing.”

“Weren’t you after raiding the place? You’re NCR convicts.”

“Ex-convicts.” – Joe clarified – “And no, man, we are after some bastard named Ringo. Owns big deal to us and got a mouth just too damn big for his own good.”

“And you cannot find this man in a town as small as this one…”

Joe frowned, tempted to give the necrotic some good ol’ tongue-lashing, but decided better against it. Getting cocky with this one wasn’t worth his brains blowing in the wind, and he was already on a tight rope, to begin with.

“There are too many places to hide around here. He'd see me coming and then _‘bam’_, I'm dead.” – he explained instead – “He doesn't know you, though. He probably won't shoot right away.”

Maybe they could work out a deal with the ghoul.

“You’re saying that, in exchange for your collaboration, you want this guy’s head?” – the necrotic asked calmly.

“Hey, man, we just wanna be sure we can trust you won’t be mad-shooting our arses off once we help you controlling the townspeople.” – Joe reasoned – “Do us this little favor and we’ll not only help you, but also put in a good word with the rest of the gang so you can travel through our territory without getting ambushed.”

The ghoul’s milky eyes squinted as if deciding whether pulling the trigger or not.

“You’ve got a deal.” – the necrotic said while lowering his gun – “But do play me and you and your men are a crows’ feast. Are we clear on this?”

“Crystal clear.” – Joe answered while extending his hand to seal their deal. After all, they were running low on smokes and supplies, and this town could provide to them just fine.

Despite his rotten aspect, the ghoul had a strong grip.

* * *

Vulpes was in two minds about what he was going to _allow_ this Profligate do with him.

For starters, he wasn’t supposed to get any other medic treatment than what the wise women of the Legion could provide.

Purgatives for animal venom and healing powder and poultices were, in addition with sewing broken tissue and limb re-collocation, almost the only treatments legionaries got. They got a deep wound or a critical impact? They died out of hemorrhage. Inner or external, it didn’t matter much.

They got sick with annual flu or other kinds of illnesses/infections? They were hydrated, fed and tended until either they survived or died.

They got severe radiation poisoning and, very possibly, a tumor? They died the slow death.

But if Vulpes was sure about one thing that was that the medical field on the Legion was severely backward. Even if they were using natural remedies to avoid dependency upon pre-War medication, their research hadn’t gone beyond what the tribes they had conquered had provided with their shamans, midwives, and wise women’s knowledge.

And Vulpes had seen, from time to time on his travels as Anguis’ pupil, people capable of making natural Stimpacks out of sterilized empty syringes, boiled Broc flower and Xander root… but when the time came that he was in a position of power to suggest Caesar that the wise women learned how to prepare these natural Stimpacks and the life-saving Hydra, his Lord had forbidden such a thing happening.

Why, Vulpes hadn’t dared to ask, but he had made sure to learn both recipes so at least he and a few chosen among his men that he knew they would keep their mouths shut about it would benefit from them.

So now, having at his disposal a way to reset his inner clock and get rid of the permanent fatigue sensation, a product of his rad poisoning was… a too tempting treat to lead it to waste.

It was against his orders? Yes. It was against what Legion represented? Oh, yes. But, did he want to live for more years? Like the Courier had said: it couldn’t hurt.

Did he care? Sort of.

Swallowing the uncomfortable hiss he wished to release as the big needle perforated his forearm artery and thick liquid spread along his bloodstream, Vulpes forced himself to watch the entire procedure despite how sick it made him feel.

“You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to.” – the Followers’ doctor said gently, worried at the young man’s adverse expression.

“I want to learn where and how you insert the needle.” – the Frumentarius replied with his best neutral tone despite his discomfort.

“Ah, so you’re a freelance medicine student?” – asked the other man with evident sympathy, clearly taking his interest in a wrong idealistic way – “You know, learning medicine can help saving lots of lives out there in the Wasteland.”

“Indeed.” – was the answer Vulpes offered, neither sharing his point of view nor denying it.

He would store this knowledge away for his own purposes the same way he had secured another two RadAway intravenous bags and a handful of small pill bottles of Rad-X and Buffout inside the inner pockets of his jacket without the other man noticing.

“That’s it.” – Arcade said after removing the needle and the elastic band from his arm – “You may feel slightly woozy once the chemical solution takes full hold of your system. It takes some time to work and it is also a potent diuretic so you might be… going to the toilet several times this evening, so keep yourself hydrated and everything would be fine. Don’t worry, it is how your body rejects the waste.”

Vulpes shrugged as if the information had nothing to do with his person.

“Now, to the addiction problem.”

The Frumentarius frowned, not liking one bit to address _that way_ something that hadn’t been his doing in the first place, but rather a way for a _rat_ to get the upper hand. He wasn’t a junkie like those on the Freeside who begged for scraps and whored themselves in the streets for the next dose.

“Addictol or Fixer?”

Vulpes eyed with disgust the Addictol inhaler, being reminded of Jet, and took the small metallic box he was offered, opened it and gulped down the tiny pills inside.

It hadn’t even been a minute after when his sight got blurred while, at the same time, his ears rang and the need of retch got his stomach upside down.

“Ah, yes. Forgot to tell you that Addictol, despite its appearance, works better than Fixer when it comes to nausea.” – watching the young man putting his head between his legs while retching, Arcade added – “If you want to vomit, the bathroom is the next door at your ri…”

He didn’t end his sentence as Vulpes practically _threw_ himself to the door, a hand over his mouth to prevent puking himself all over, retching loudly all the way.

Arcade said nothing as he proceeded to clean and put away his medical utensils, hearing the younger man next door violently emptying his stomach.

He would be fine… as far as the addiction and the radiation poisoning were concerned.

He couldn’t say the same for the cuts and gnawing marks on his wrists. Psychology hadn’t been a very developed science prior to the War and now it wasn’t any better, less when it came with an evident clinical suicidal-tendency case.

_Yet another broken soul to add to the collection of misfits._ – Arcade thought, shaking his head – _Six, you sweet, gentle piece of work, one would say that you can sniff drama whenever you walk on it._

* * *

It was almost half-past six in the afternoon when Trudy took a break at the Saloon and, with her broken radio under her left arm while carrying two garnish-filled tuppers on her right; she directed her steps towards the old gas station near good ol’ Doc Mitchell’s house.

A week ago, while speaking with Ringo, he had mentioned that he had been a sort of a handyman before joining the Crimson Caravans Company and she had been exchanging his repairman services for food instead of giving it to him for free since then. After all, this mess had started because of him and, while she wasn’t comfortable sending a man to his death, she wasn’t either giving him shelter for free. It was fair, after all.

So now, it was the Saloon’s radio that had gotten mute this afternoon while giving a juicy report on New Vegas and how the Lucky 38 had opened its doors for the first time in nearly a decade since House had cleaned the place from raiders and re-established his Old World business on the Strip.

Trudy knocked twice the regular way, then twice shorter to indicate the inner resident that it was her so he wouldn’t shoot. She opened the door and entered.

“Today’s ration is coyote-cheese-and-cram so it will give you energy enough for the new task I’m going to give y…”

She fell silent when her eyes caught sight of the red mess splattering both walls and floor amidst rusty tin cans, bone splinters, empty bullet shells and a thick, darker matter that she immediately knew had pertained to a destroyed brain.

The headless corpse was behind the counter, where the man had been sleeping on a dirty mattress beside the broken strongbox.

Trudy’s eyes filled with tears that weren’t directed at the assassinated man, but rather a product of her own fear the moment she heard behind her various pairs of boots stopping at the door and a distinguishable rotten stench she immediately recognized got on her nose.

“You’ve stuck to your end of the deal.” – she heard Joe Cobb’s voice speaking, evidently pleased with what he was seeing – “Now it’s our turn: I saw some of the townies gathering at the Saloon, so we've got a militia to take down. We get rid of them and we own this place.”

“Remember to reduce the number of corpses to a minimum.” – replied a dry, croaked voice she also recognized immediately. Its owner had been at her Saloon this morning – “I need them alive.”

“Okay, okay. No worries. We also didn’t need the townies dead, just the ones who would cause us trouble.” – replied Cobb, his voice getting distant – “You coming?”

“In a moment.” – said the herculean ghoul while he forced Trudy turning around with just one of his enormous hands – “First, I have some talk to do with the Miss.”

Trudy’s tears ran hot and itchy freely all over her paralyzed face.

* * *

Once Vulpes emerged from the bathroom after some recovery time alone and a long warm shower to help relax his tense muscles, he found himself amidst utter chaos as Lily was carrying under one arm what looked like a video projector of sorts and a rolled-up plastic white screen while, on the other hand, she was grabbing a bunch of cushions.

Immediately next to her came Boone, who directed him a sidelong dirty glare behind his sunglasses (why he was still wearing them indoors was beyond the Frumentarius’ comprehension) and disappeared inside the guest bedroom with two carton boxes filled with what looked like beers and soft drinks under each arm.

Raul and Rex were the next ones, the former carrying two cushioned chairs, the later with a drooled cushion between its maws.

Noise of furniture being displaced next door preceded Cass’ and Veronica’s emergence, the redhead carrying a big metallic tray full of trashy food she was also using to hold her whiskey jar where she was dipping her lips in from time to time; the brunette, on the opposite, had a pile of clean bright pieces of clothing between her arms.

“Hey, _Jimmy_!” – Veronica exclaimed jokingly, stopping in front of him with a big friendly smile – “You up for some pajama party?”- she asked happily while offering one of the two-pieced set of clothing.

“I beg your pardon?” – Vulpes asked, taking automatically the offered garment.

“Well, that was how Six called it.” – the Scribe replied awkwardly. Awkwardly _happy_ still – “Anyway, it is some sort of pre-War occurrence where a group of friends gather together and eat trash food and drink and watch movies while wearing pajamas. Sounds fun, hey?” – she added cheerfully.

“Errrrr…” – Vulpes wasn’t really sure what he was expected to say but he didn’t get a chance to try elaborating further when the Courier’s voice called Veronica from the other room, asking her to help with, presumably, the projector Lily had been carrying.

“Sorry, gotta go.” – the small woman said, turning around – “Change yourself and come to the guest dorm area. We’re going to watch some _‘medieval fantasy’_ thingy about a ring! Raul says it’s good stuff, _‘very epic’_, he says. I’ve never heard of such a story, not even in the pre-War books the Brotherhood recovered over the years!”

Puzzled, with an unreadable expression set on his features, Vulpes backpedaled into the bathroom again and got inside one of the curtains that hid a bathtub, where he had taken his shower earlier.

He spent his good ten minutes trying to decipher what was happening _exactly_ around him, to remember in which _precise_ moment he had signed for madness instead of spy work until he sighed heavily and changed from his dapper suit to the clear blue pajama he had been assigned. The carpeted floor under his tendon feet odd to the touch.

Once he got outside the bathroom area, he poked out his head, watching carefully the deserted main corridor that communicated all rooms on this floor, his electric blue eyes landing briefly over the humming but other than that quiet securitron that watched over the elevator’s entrance.

Like a jumpy deer, he came out of the bathrooms quietly, dragging his clothes and the hidden medical items with him, almost tiptoed towards the kitchen area, got his duffle bag, stored his possessions on it, and walked calmly towards the guest dorm area, where they had gotten all the roller blinds down and had taken off the lights so the only source of glow came from the big wall screen where the movie was being projected.

He had arrived just at the beginning, where a disembodied female voice against a plain black background spoke about how the world had changed, followed by another unintelligible language spoken in soft tones

Vulpes didn’t know what this was all about, but the room was oddly distributed for a guest dorm as all the four double beds had been aligned like one grand padded rectangle where the majority of the Courier’s group had decided to sit or lie over.

Vulpes got a corner with sheets, cushions and the wall to help sustain his back, sitting unconsciously at the Courier’s right side. Her also blue pajamas’ sleeves and legs heavily folded around her slim limbs as the outfit was far too big for her while, for him, it came out too short on the legs. He was used to it, though, finding clothes that would cover his stature were rare.

She turned briefly her head towards him and gave him a soft smile he hadn’t the time to answer as the big screen stole her attention once more. On her lap, a plate with the most bizarre mix of Potato Crisps, a box full of Sugar Bombs and Fancy Lads Snack Cakes and a big sandwich that consisted of Brahmin steak with Cheezy Poofs, fried maize, sliced Yum-Yum Deviled Eggs and crispy jalapeño peppers. Later, he would discover that she called such a dish a “hamburger”.

To be completely honest, it took a while until Vulpes stopped analyzing the room he was on and the bizarre situation he had gotten into and his attention, out of pure boredom, was finally caught by the screen.

At first, he didn’t understand what he was looking at or why human actors and actresses were costumed in such a bizarre fashion until he got the grasp that this wasn’t meant as a human story at all, but one full of imaginary creatures that he had only saw on the few Grognak the Barbarian comics he had happened to stumble upon across.

His first impression had been one of confusion while trying to unravel the plot of the story, which revolved around a powerful magical artifact, a ring, created with malice, to “rule them all”.

Confusion gave way to skepticism as the story explained how the ring made its bearers insane over time, consuming them from the inside like some particularly vicious drug.

But skepticism soon gave way to fascination as the story evolved into a journey.

A journey of four little childlike creatures (again, humans on costumes) that got more and more dangerous as they pressed on, trying to get rid of the malevolent ring.

When the four aforementioned small creatures came to a halt in a city full of odd beautified humans that were supposed to be a wise, ancient race, Vulpes was already munching on Lily’s nut cookies, stealing a fry or a Sugar Bomb from time to time from the Courier’s plate.

The world these characters inhabited was endowed with remarkable duplicity, being more beautiful than anything Vulpes had dreamed of… and more terrifying than an irradiated hole full of frenzied Floaters and Centaurs.

The later was fully demonstrated once the now enlarged group that had gone from four to nine characters got inside a “mine” after being attacked by an enormous sea – lake - creature.

Their travels through darkness and tense silence were abruptly interrupted when one of the small childlike creatures made noise enough to awaken a whole army of nasty dark creatures.

Vulpes and, he could tell, many of the present people watching the film enjoyed the fight going on the screen… until said fight was cut in the middle by the most monstrous, nightmarish creature that all of the presents had ever seen. Floaters included.

A chase against clock ensued. And the group didn’t almost make it.

And, when the old shaman with the long beard and the ridiculous grey costume got in front of the terrible creature made of fire and smoke exclaimed that it shall not pass, the Courier’s hand had gotten an unconscious grasp of his.

The shaman got swallowed by darkness and the group, once they’ve managed to get outside the cursed mine, mourned over his fall.

And the Courier Six, while directing him an apology look for touching him while mumbling a soft _“Sorry”_, took her hand out of his.

Without looking at her but knowing very well what he was doing, Vulpes grabbed her small hand into his larger one and they remained like that until the movie finished, neither of them exchanging a single glance, neither of them speaking.

The tale of the nine companions met an abrupt end as another two were kidnapped and one of the two human warriors that accompanied them was killed in battle after being seduced by the power of the ring.

And there were tears in the Courier’s eyes.

Once the end credits started rolling, Veronica’s voice elevated from the seemingly eerie silence.

“And that’s it?” – she complained, disappointment evident on her voice – “Frodo and Sam continue the journey and the others are left behind just like that?”

“There’s a second part, _Señorita_ Veronica.” – Raul clarified – “The journey doesn’t end here.”

“We’ve got said second part?” – in Veronica’s voice there was a hopeful intonation.

“Yes.” – Arcade’s voice replied while he raised slowly from his lying position – “Six has the second and _third_ parts on her Pip-Boy’s memory. We have Fellowship of the Ring for a while.”

“Then, I call a time-out f’r ten minut’s to r’fill our drinks ‘nd take a piss.” – Cass said while making a big “T” with her hands, her voice and pronunciation already slurred with alcohol – “I’been peein’ myself for tha last hour. I wanna pee so bad I might soak myself ‘ere, ‘n not in tha good w’ay, if I dunno get to tha toil’t NOW.”

The rest agreed, so they went quickly to the bathroom and the kitchen areas respectively, leaving the Courier, Rex (who, at some point on the movie, had taken Vulpes’ lap as his new resting pillow) and the Frumentarius alone.

She rose from her seating position and Vulpes let go of her hand, leaving a residual odd tingling sensation on his fingertips.

“Sorry.” – she apologized again – “I didn’t recalled till now that I always cry when Boromir dies.”

Vulpes didn’t answer, unable to relate with how she felt towards an imaginary tale. It was entertaining, fascinating and very well done, yes… but it was just a tale, a story that had never really happened.

The Great War had really happened, the Roman Empire had really happened… the devastation and later mutation of their world had really happened.

In fact, living in a world without radiation, ghouls, mutated flora and fauna and 200-year-old consumables was just an idyllic, out-of-reach notion for the Frumentarius, who had always lived with the same living conditions and didn’t know any better.

His world had been, first and foremost, revolving around myths, superstition and grand religious paraphernalia that he had discarded later as his apprenticeship under Callidus Anguis’ wing had opened to him a door to the closest resemblance of pre-War culture: the NCR government.

Anguis had been a skeptic, disbeliever man who had taken great pains to mold his star pupil into a disenchanted, uptight and godless young man that only swore on Mars’ name more out of habit than true belief.

Anguis had been a twisted, embittered human being that had only pledged to Caesar’s will just because it benefitted him. He hadn’t given a crap about his Lord’s vision or the Hegelian dialectics he preached.

Vulpes, on the other hand, had been paying attention while procuring himself enough reading material to form a solid opinion and, ultimately, he had reached the conclusion that Caesar’s vision was worth all the sacrifice Vulpes had been making since he was a child.

So he had killed Anguis.

And now, as head of the Frumentarii, studying the Profligate pre-War culture from first-hand was giving him an idea about what values were worth retaining and assimilating and what was fated to extinction.

This form of entertaining, of telling exemplary tales by means of hypothetic, imaginary worlds, was a very potent tool to either teach values or shaping human nature into mindless sheep. He liked that.

And, for that very reason, he gladly endured the marathon of the next second and third parts of this imaginary tale of morally black and white characters who knew nothing about adaptation into a hostile environment that kept changing as colonization and politics erased the rich imagination of primitive cultures.

Primitive cultures that, once, had been all he had known.

* * *

Once Sunny Smiles woke up from her strike-induced unconsciousness, she knew with pristine clarity that this was it, that her bleeding nose, her aching ribs, and her tied limbs were a symptom that no tomorrow awaited for Goodsprings.

“You are awake. That is fortunate.” – the steely, raspy ghoulish voice came along with heavy combat boots landing in front of her blurred vision – “Now, if you don’t want to prolong this detestable situation, I suggest you start talking about a _certain_ little girl with a Pip-Boy.”

However, she resisted by throwing a bloodied spit at her captor’s boots.

Next thing she knew were the pained wails of Cheyenne as she was being dragged by her collar in front of the bound woman.

The explosion and the blood that came next poured over Sunny like a rain of doom. And she cried.

But she sealed her mouth tight with busted lips and bloodied teeth in front of this rotten monster. Should he sought an answer from her, he would have to rip it off her cold, rigid tongue.

“Enough, enough!” – however, another voice rose from the whimpers of tied, frightened people – “The girl went South towards Primm! She said that a guy in a checkered suit had shot and robbed her!”

“Shut your fucking trap, Chet!” – Sunny bellowed, earning a kick in the gut almost immediately.

“Go on.” – encouraged the ghoul, directing his milky, dead sight towards the terrified man.

“S-she said that she was a courier of sorts.” – Chet mumbled, not willing to meet Sunny’s betrayed glare – “But she would keep forgetting silly things like her name or whom she was supposed to deliver her package. Must have been the two bullets the guy shot on her skull.”

“Bullets, you say?” – asked the ghoul.

“I-I don’t know anything more! I swear!” – the vendor whimpered – “Please, just let us be! We will do anything you want! Anything!”

“Do you know who this man was?” – the necrotic asked stolidly, pointedly ignoring the man’s pleas – “Or what he was doing in your town?”

“He looked like a New Vegas-type, typical city boy.” – the seller answered quickly, out of breath – “He had a bunch of Great Khans with him, probably hired guns. No idea what his business here could be, though. He just disappeared after robbing the gal.”

Pinching his skinned chin thoughtfully, the giant ghoul nodded towards a smirking Joe Cobb, whose gaze held a greedy eagerness he wasn’t bothering masking.

“The town is yours.” – said the necrotic – “Do as you please with them as long as it doesn’t involve my collaboration any longer. I have not seen you, you have not seen me.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, man.” – was the cool reply Joe delivered, positioning himself in front of a hurting Sunny Smiles, the metallic lips of his cannon caressing her hair – “Now, what are we gonna do with this bitch? You had fun playing sheriff while keeping an eye on us this last month, huh?”

Her answer was a thick, bloodied, mucus-filled spit on his shirt.

His was a messy shot right in between her brows.

* * *

Taking a languorous drag at her half-finished cigar, a toned, hour-glassed silhouette rested against the white ornamental balustrade of the top floor’s balcony while inspecting absently the dark void of kilometers ahead of her as her green eyes peered in the cold quiet of the night, sinking into silvery sands of waste and wild empty soil.

Throwing the still-burning butt of the cigarette with practiced moves into the dark below, watching as the small ember drowned in black, she raised her left wrist and pressed a button that bathed her cold visage with a soft greenish glow.

While the face pertaining to the silhouette would have been described as classy and beautiful, she had a sharp edge about her that gave her a statuesque aura: fair and good-looking, yet hard and cold as smoothed marble.

The owner of such physical traits tinkered a bit with her wrist device until she found an audio archive she put on reproducing.

** _“So here I am, back where it all began. Project Purity. God, we wanted to change the world. We really thought the waters of life could be a reality. And that's why…”_ **

That wasn’t the audio she was looking for, so she pressed play on the next one.

** _“Well, here we are again. Project Purity and me. It's been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my daughter. We spent all that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world. It wasn't perfect, but it was safe, and that's all I could have hoped for. Now, my daughter is a grown woman. Beautiful, intelligent, confident. Just like her mother. And as hard as it was to admit it, she doesn't need her daddy anymore.”_ **

Green cold eyes flickered just a bit, the index finger hovering over the next audio file.

Frowning lips preceded the next old recording, the voice on it sounding tired.

** _“I don't really know how to tell you this. I hope you'll understand, but I know you might be angry. I thought about it for a long time, but in the end I decided it was best for you not to know. So many things could have gone wrong, and there's really no telling how the Overseer will react when he finds out. It's best if he can blame everything on me. Obviously, you already know that I'm gone. It was something I needed to do. You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own. Maybe some day, things will change and we can see each other again. I can't tell you why I left or where I'm going. I don't want you to follow me. God knows life in the Vault isn't perfect, but at least you'll be safe. Just knowing that will be enough to keep me going.”_ **

A perfectly vertical frown set in between trimmed fair eyebrows while another voice spoke briefly to usher the main speaker to finish the recording quickly.

** _“Goodbye. I love you.”_ **

Then, the recording was over.

Reaching for another cigar from the pack inside one embroidered pocket of her silk flowing chemise, the lone silhouette made barrier between the tiny blaze of her silver lighter and the chilling breeze that came from the desert, long blonde threads flowing eerily in the moonlight.

Two more drags and a thin cloud of smoke abandoned both her nostrils and lips.

“Liar…” – she whispered.

Tasting the blessed filth for a while, another burning cigar butt was thrown to the dark as small, dainty naked feet padded silently towards the balcony entrance; the flick of a light catching immediately the green serpentine eyes’ attention.

The quick rush of adrenaline that jolted through her veins tinted her vision red while her hand grabbed instinctively a handful of hair that she used to connect both her strength and the cranium she had on her grip with the hard wall violently one, two, three times.

The distinctive sound of broken tissue amidst pained screams was all the information her brain needed before releasing her grip, long dirty blonde threads still between her fingers, as the other figure dropped on the floor.

However, not satisfied enough, one naked foot connected twice with tender flesh as the screams turned into howls.

“I warned you.” – she said, her voice devoid of any intonation as her cold eyes watched impassibly how the other figure contorted on the tiled floor – “I warned you to _never_ knock on this door even if your innards are dangling out of your open belly.”

“BITCH!” – a horrified, shrilling female voice cried – “You’ve broken my nose!”

A small, though strong naked heel sank deeply into the other woman’s tender thigh, dangerously close to her crotch, prompting her howling again.

“Next time you won’t be so lucky, as I will turn both your arms’ and legs’ bones into tiny splinters surfacing your muscular and dermal tissue.” – the younger, stronger female said dispassionately; lean, hard muscles rippling under her chemise – “So then, when your clients would be seeking your _‘services’_, you will be _attending_ them from your bed, where you belong, whore.”

“You’re mad, MAD!” – the other screeched – “I don’t know how Burke can put up with you rotting, insane, fucked-up monster!”

A perpendicular kick connected with the other woman’s vulva, sending her shaking, limb-twisted form several paces ahead. A small bloodstain started to form on her silken pink panties.

“I don’t want to see your diseased, rancid-cum-filled cunt on this floor never _ever_ again, you cockroach slut.” – the calm, green-eyed woman deadpanned – “_My_ territory, _my_ man.”

She didn’t make sure that the other dragged her beaten-up excuse of a body (which, in fact, she was) towards the elevator as she calmly closed the door behind her.

“My, my. Laura, beloved songbird of mine; that was quite the display, if I may infer.” – a smooth, deep baritone purr caressed her from the old-fashioned, richly decorated queen-sized bed a few paces in front of her – “Perhaps… a little too much. We don't want a crippled escort to attend the Tower’s clientele, don’t we?”

She remained propped against the suite’s main door, her thin, arched eyebrows hinting a disdainful undertone in her body language. The outline of her taut, muscled legs still beating with adrenaline rush.

“Then hire another escort.” – she replied coolly – “Because next time I’m finding her filthy paws on your door’s knob, I am gutting and putting her rotting pig carcass on display on the Main Hall as if this were a raider camp instead of a posh hotel.”

A melodic, low chuckle came from the bed.

“Now, now. Flattering as I may find your ardor, the clientele, on the contrary, might not find your… _talents_ as lovely as I do.” – the baritone voice spoke again; the pleasant, warm intonation calling her from her cold spot like siren chants – “I shall have a little conversation with Susan about her _restrictions _on this area… However, should this incident would repeat again, I will allow you to have the honor of returning her to the slavers she ran from. Would this be a reasonable outcome of this little… dilemma?” – when she nodded slowly, her panther-like eyes still fixed upon her interlocutor, the voice added – “Good. Now, come here, beloved. I see your insomnia has taken quite a toll on you. You look exhausted.”

Even if she retained her detached, cold façade, she already knew that he had won. His velvety voice could convince the Devil to start a life of piety and an angel to sin like a whore. He had a way with words she had always envied and admired.

He hadn’t a muscled body like she had, but his grip was strong and his bite stung deliciously.

With him, she felt truly _safe_.

Not like those recorded messages pertaining to a dead man whose broken promises had left her lost and naked against the burning Wasteland sun.

She fit into this much older man’s arms like a glove, pampered and feared like the dangerous, wounded creature she was. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

Once her cheek found the warm, cologne-caressed crook of his neck, she left a trail of soft kisses along his jaw to his ear, where she stopped and whispered.

“By the way, lover, Charon has written.” – she savored how his pulse quickened slightly beneath her lips – “He has found a trail.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "Well, don't beat around the bush, blondie. With such a name, do you speak Spanish well?"  
(2) - "Getting all nosy so I spill the beans, dude?"  
(3) - "I like this lad! Fucking funny!
> 
> (Side Note: I am not native Mexican, so maybe I've screwed up a bit their slang. Any Mexicans out there, do correct me if I've exaggerated it too much.) 
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: hey! Thank you for the new readers' Kudos! I hope this chapter had proven juicy enough despite its length. I know it is difficult to review on too much information contained in a single chapter, but I cannot bring myself to write less content. Sorry :(  
Ahem, allow me to introduce my Lone Wanderer: Laura Alden, twenty-four years old and a force to be reckoned. She is just how many people would depict a Courier instead of a Female Lone Wanderer: strong, wild, a bit crazed and very self-assured. Not a good person, just like her lover.  
Aaaaand, yes, manipulative Vulpes for you all! He's not buying Six's goodness, so he's pulling her threads to see how she reacts. I know this chapter had been more centered around him than her, but I also want to develop Vulpes as a character and not just accept him like "this twisted, charming dude who spies for Caesar". Reasons and background it's what makes a character unique, so I am trying... really hard.  
Also, don't hate Charon... too much. He's honor-bound by his contract with Laura, so it was expected of him to perform some evil deeds in her name. After all, he's her enforcer, but he hasn't have to like it.  
Anyway, what do you think? You know, comments are glorious (and free) for a starved writer :P  
See ya all! :D
> 
> PD: if there's a kind soul out there willing to correct my grammar/spelling/coherence mistakes and/or typos, I will be definitely very grateful. I'm not an English native speaker.


	6. Nuclear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains non-descriptive passages that make references to a child's murder, slavery, pedophilia, near-rape experience, rape and psychological abuse. It isn't remotely near as bad as it sounds, but some people are sensitive towards these topics so, either don't read, or proceed with caution.

* * *

_“¡Hermano! ¡Hermano, espera!” (1)_

_He wasn’t listening._

_“¡Papá ha dicho que está prohibido acercarse ahí!” (2)_

_He simply hadn’t cared about the white-and-red handprints or the familiar three perpendicular slashes._

_“¡Déjalo! ¡Tenemos que irnos ya!” (3)_

_He had taken a handful of red sand on his tiny, clay smeared fist and had allowed the warm, raspy, thin grains to slide between his bony fingers._

_Once the last grain had abandoned his dirty palm, getting back to the Earth, where it belonged, he had taken a deep breath as well as courage and, in a swift motion, he had disappeared inside the forbidden place: a medium-sized wooden house with half of the roof gone. Many metallic signs with faded numbers stood twisted and rusty in front of the entrance. A big chunk of metal that, Back When, would have been a caravan of sorts._

_He had braved the metallic carapace before, now he wanted to see what the ruined house had in store for him._

_The door had been closed, but that hadn’t supposed any difference for him. He was slim and agile, his sense of equilibrium carefully honed after more falls from rocks and trees that he had cared to acknowledge, his palms, elbows and knees calloused from his frequent escapades around his tribe’s valley with his siblings. Sometimes daring enough to reach where the neighbor Hispanic tribe habited to call their kids ‘pendejos’ and, immediately, scurry away laughing. There was some pretty girl that always smiled at him and called him ‘rubio bonito’. (4)_

_She was a little older than him and she had given him a kiss on the cheek once, and he had been boasting about it a whole Mooncicle with his male siblings, his gruffy sister really don’t seeing the appeal of been kissed or to kiss a boy._

_At the tender age of ten, he was the tallest and thinnest of the boys his age on the tribe, his older brother being almost five years older than him was only half a head taller._

_He hadn’t been thick and broad like him or their father, like the twins, Coyote and Hiena, or like little Dingo, who had been seven and one Hell of a sturdy kid._

_No. His mother, unlike theirs, had been a thin woman, too frail to bear robust children, too proud to let her English mother tongue disappear amidst almost exclusively Spanish speakers… too bitter to mingle with the rest of the tribe._

_She had taught him how to speak the English language ‘properly’ with her fastidious accent… and she always addressed him in English, seeking conversation with him, forcing him to think and develop his intellect so he would be at her level of conversation… wanting to have him around ALWAYS, saying that the sun would burn his sensitive skin and, eventually, would render him blind._

_However, his father didn’t share in her opinions and, with a thick layer of clay and mud smeared all over his exposed skin and wearing some eye protection he called ‘shaded crystals’ around his head, he allowed the kid roam free and wild under scorching days in the South. And he had been grateful for that._

_The more his mother and the tribal women had wanted to keep him protected indoors, the more he had rebelled against it, willing to endure headaches, burnings and sometimes even blisters just for the sake of proving that he could do it, that he wasn’t a reptile who slide in the sand, but another cub from the pack, all claws and teeth._

_So, he had climbed his way to the ruined rooftop of the house… and said roof had sustained his lithe form as he had descended into semidarkness._

_He hadn’t paid attention to his siblings’ insistent calls and, after a quick inspection of the place that had rendered delightful fruits, he had managed to unlock the old door from the inside, allowing it to open ominously slow to reveal his cocky smiling form, all teeth and childish pride. The smoky crystals in front of his blue eyes reflecting the light._

_In his tiny, chalky hands, a faded issue of “Grognak the Barbarian”._

_“¿Qué es eso?” (5) – had asked Hiena, brave enough to approach first._

_“Un libro con dibujos.” – had been his own answer, allowing the twins a better view of his treasure – “Está en inglés.” (6)_

_“¿Cómo lo sabes?” (7) – had asked Coyote while giving an uneasy look towards the ruined wooden house._

_“Reconozco algunas palabras.” – he had admitted – “Todavía no sé leer muy bien, pero mi madre sí que sabe. Le preguntaré a ella a ver qué dice el libro.” (8)_

_“No deberías haber entrado.” (9) – Coyote had said solemnly._

_Despite being just a year younger than him, the boy twin had been always… way too cautious. His twin sister, on the other hand, had a more adventurous spirit. And a fist to be reckoned for. Not for nothing, Hiena was feared and respected among the other children, as none of them had been able to best her in a fight._

_Not that the older albino had ever picked a fight with her. She was his secret favorite amongst the other siblings._

_“Cobarde, gallina, Capitán de las Sardinas.” (10) – he had sung mockingly, earning a frown from the younger kid._

_“¿Podemos verlo?” (11) – Hiena had asked, eagerness set in her bright blue eyes as she eyed the comic between her older sibling’s hands._

_And the three of them had ended inside the rusty caravan carapace, the oldest between the twins, the three of them watching in wonder and amazement how a long-haired blonde man with far more muscles than any of them had ever seen in a grown-up male warrior was, to no avail, trying to fight against a goat-man dressed in a ridiculous costume that hid both his masculine parts and half his face. Apparently, this non-human creature was managing to trick the muscled, half-naked man, into traps each time the other got himself free to unleash a counter-offensive._

_Later, his mother would read the comic for him, helping him with the most difficult words as the Trickster, the half-human’s alias, tended to speak in very formal English (presumably both to make himself seem more intelligent and to bring out the fact that the hero, Grognak, relied too much on his strength and hadn’t bothered to fill his mind with ideas more sophisticated than war and blood)._

_The comic had carried a heavy implication that a man wasn’t just strength, endurance and good intentions, but that intelligence and cunning were indispensable to thrive. The Trickster’s only fault had been pride, thus why the hero, in the end, had won._

_The little fox had learned this and, in time, he had developed more respect towards the villainous figure of the Trickster than the single-minded, good-looking but boring Grognak._

_Because not all the victors were examples to follow… but every single loser was a lesson to learn from._

* * *

Vulpes’ eyelids fluttered open, momentarily disoriented of his whereabouts, but soon grasping on the situation: he was inside the only and one Lucky 38 after the two possibly most bizarre evenings in the company of the most chameleonic girl he had ever met.

For some unfathomable reason, after something close to _nine_ hours watching this pre-War film trilogy while gulping down as much trash food and Nuka-Cola as his stomach had allowed him, his brain and, thus, his self-preservation instincts had decided to disconnect and he had ended up snuggling amidst all the cushions and fresh sheets, the cyberdog taking a place by his side, warming him and licking his knuckles while the Courier had made herself a tiny ball under the sheets and had gone asleep while scratching the animal’s ears, sometimes the tips of her cold fingers sweeping accidentally over Vulpes’ phalanges.

He had thought at first that she was making some sort of subtle innuendo, and he had been ready to whisper an invitation to get the two of them alone in another room… until he had caught sight of her lips half-opened and the nervous ocular tics behind the curtain of her closed eyelids and lashes.

She had fallen asleep and Vulpes couldn’t simply bring himself to believe it.

So, that had been how, meanwhile his thoughts had run wild with pros and cons, sense and reason, cause and consequence… his body had decided to disconnect and he had fell deeply asleep.

And now, he had the most urgency to go to the privy.

He slide from the amalgam of conjoined beds and sheets, the dog raising its pointy ears briefly, eyeing him lazily and returning its head between its paws.

Vulpes felt… strangely warm despite knowing that it was the middle of the night and he should be experiencing at least some degree of body heat loss. While passing under one of the ventilation grills, he raised one long hand and felt, puzzled, how dry mildly warm air was coming in silent, soft waves inside the room.

He had never experienced anything like that, not even inside one of the casinos’ rooms, where conditioning air was fairly common.

It was… comforting, truly making the ambiance cozy and relaxing, like having a soft blanket over your shoulders in front of a creaking bonfire while sipping on warm coffee.

No matter, he thought, shaking his head slowly; these were luxuries not meant for him, but rather for Caesar and his slaves, soon-to-be-just-servants if everything went according to plan. Of course his Lord would keep the Beacon of the Mojave for his personal use. Vulpes would consider himself lucky if he managed to get a hold of one of the other main casinos and use it not just as his personal home, but also as the Frumentarii’s Headquarters.

Their lives would improve soon. And, if the Courier would bring herself to collaborate with them, he would ensure that she got decent lodging.

Speaking of the Courier, now that he had gotten a full view of the padded rectangle full of bodies from a short distance, hers wasn’t among them.

His brief concern was promptly answered the more he came close to the bathroom as he heard water running to hid the retching sounds a tiny female voice was producing.

Did she have yet another migraine? Were those frequent for her? Could have been that the two bullets…?

Popping his head out very slightly on the thin aperture she had left on the bathroom’s door, he found two of the three sinks running water furiously while she was crouched over one of the toilets, gripping its sides viciously as she threw up. Her pajama trousers discarded at a side on the floor as she, apparently, had puked herself a bit during the process.

Because this was a process, as she would stop, tremble, sob at irregular intervals and proceed to vomit again.

She kept on for another ten minutes until her stomach gave nothing beyond than bile and she, still trembling, propped herself on the toilet and rose slowly, giving Vulpes a full view of her slender long legs and small feet. She had, surprisingly, dainty feet and wiry muscles that ascended from her knees towards hidden buttocks and hips below the pajamas’ upper piece’s shadow.

She was sweating and the greenish gleam that reflected both on her puffy, tear-filled eyes and her forehead as her Pip-Boy was the only source of light in the entire room, was strangely… mesmerizing.

Biting down her now plumped lip, her face gave away a gesture of profound despair as she fumbled with her device, her reddened eyes reading something desperately as more tears came down her face.

So, this _wasn’t_ a migraine, after all, but a tantrum. A _very_ dangerous tantrum if it had made her empty all her stomach contents and gave her such a helpless, frightened look on her features.

What was she reading? What had made her so distressed?

His questions went unanswered as she took a small towel, got inside one of the bathtubs, put the folded towel on her mouth so she could bite on it, turned the cold-water plug on, and flashed a direct stream towards her head, half pajama and underclothes still on.

While his eyes traveled the silvery paths the water was casting down her legs, panties and upper pajama, soaking and sticking to her small back while her entire form shivered violently, Vulpes understood what she was doing. Many legionaries, when they wanted to contain unwelcome emotions or to clear their heads, tended either to pick a fight with another legionary or to submerge themselves, if available, into the nearest pond or river until they calmed down. Vulpes had done that himself on his first years training under the Legion instructors’ tutelage, still a child, still on his way adapting to his new situation.

Any other girl her age would have opted to a relaxing warm shower to calm her nerves, but she didn’t. This was a _soldier_ answer in the face of distress.

So, her technical knowledge of robotics and electronics, First Aid training and the many languages she spoke weren’t incidental or a consequence of a hyperactive, inquisitive mind. She had been trained.

A courier, a tech repairwoman and, possibly, a soldier? This smelled NCR through and through. Many couriers all over the Western territory were either Frumentarii or NCR agents. Vulpes himself would likely have ended posing as one if Anguis hadn’t seen his tendency to stand out not just because he had an odd discoloration, but because his extensive vocabulary on the common tongue, English, and his clipped accent, his mother’s handiwork, were meant for more diplomatic-oriented jobs than just delivering parcels.

So why, then, she hadn’t reported him yet? Why had she sought his help with Benny? Why even the very NCR didn’t consider her as a citizen but a prospect of an ally? Where did her _true_ allegiances rest?

And more importantly: why she didn't seem revulsed in the slightest knowing he was Legion? Why she had even bothered with making him feel at home as if he were welcomed to be part of her odd little group?

Who was she?

Vulpes used the surrounding darkness to crouch and camouflage himself the moment she emerged from the bathroom, leaving a small trail of water and wet footprints as she went towards the Master Bedroom. Curiosity got the best of the young man as he peeked again inside the bedroom to be received by the shocking sight of a naked back that was all bones and skin.

She looked… malnourished, like the slaves on the Fort at the other side of the Dam. Only that her malnutrition didn’t look haggard or ill… just plain extreme slimness.

No wonder she didn’t sport curves at all.

Now that he thought about it… could the vomiting incident have something to do with her body state?

Who in their right mind would force a whole meal, something that many people strived and even sell themselves for on a daily basis, out of their stomach just to be as thin as a junkie?

Vulpes had lots of questions popping out of his head and none were answered just by looking at her and her long legs that, despite her slimness, were her only attribute pleasing to look at.

Banishing the thought as soon as it had passed through his head, he took his eyes elsewhere until she changed on a comfy oversized green shirt and a pair of yoga pants and directed her steps towards the main corridor again, making Vulpes quickly retrace his steps to get inside another room, watching her from the dark.

He wasn’t surprised when he found that she wasn’t coming back to the guest room but, instead, she was directing her naked steps towards the elevator, where she whispered something to the apparent inactive securitron, Victor, Vulpes had learned how it was called this morning.

The machine’s screen came to life briefly, scintillated a couple of times showing the cheery cowboy interface to open immediately the elevator’s door.

Vulpes didn’t know where she was going, but he had an inkling; so, when he tried to activate Victor’s interface once the securitron went on standby mode again, he received no answer even when he asked to be transported to the Casino Floor.

Not liking one bit that he was temporarily imprisoned on the same level with six strangers, a supermutant and a ghoul amongst them, Vulpes waited for half an hour, growing tired with each second passing till his bladder protested in retaliation.

Sighing, he decided that he could very well wait in the bathroom while he relieved himself. After all, at the moment he wasn’t going anywhere.

However, after the deed was done and finding hard to wait in such a closed spaced where he wasn’t supposed to look like he was monitoring the Courier’s moves, he raised his left wrist, still occupied with his new electronic toy, opened the small compartment he had seen the girl taking a pair of earphones from the previous night back on the rooftop, and adjusted them on his ears. After that, he fumbled a bit with the Pip-Boy’s menus and databases he hadn’t the time to check until now, and selected a random music track which title and alleged singer he didn’t recognize.

And soon he found himself wondering what kind of message the Courier meant to convey by sharing with him songs with lyrics that managed to speak, in just one round, about war, orders shifts, genocide and cold, sacred lines that weren’t meant to be crossed.

* * *

Eyes fixed upon the line of silvery buttons that depicted more floors that should be allowed in a building pertaining to a long dead Era in a world of crumbled, bitter old remains covered in dust and radioactivity, Six resisted the impulse of checking her old messages data yet again.

She had forgotten how it felt reading them. Burke’s cold threats were nothing in comparison of what those old messages and audio recordings could do to her.

To make her remember.

She hadn’t anticipated the full impact, after five months wandering in the dark, holding onto disperse pieces of random information and memories, that the returning of her old Pip-Boy could do to her damaged psyche.

She had craved so badly having the answers that, for so long, had escaped her that, unknowingly, she had gotten on her plate far more than she could chew.

Over the last hour, since she had awakened just to innocently take a pee and had decided that checking on her old registries would be an okay distraction while she relieved herself, her brains had gotten such an amount of overload that she felt they would explode in a minute.

But the only thing that had exploded had been her stomach, recalling the old routines she kept back on that Babel Tower, where their inhabitants bitched with one another for petty disputes while the residents of the superior levels feathered their nests at their expenses and plotted far more sinister plans.

She recalled the old man. Impeccably shaved, with soft wrinkled tanned complexion, too soft for such an old man; full snowed coiffure styled in the gentleman fashion, flaccid big ears, thin grey eyebrows and small milky blue eyes.

Such small eyes that could convey such an amount of indifference.

She recalled that, despite literally drowning himself on expensive men’s cologne, the old fellow had exhaled a distinct smell of dusty, long-unopened wardrobe. That, coupled with his ridiculous _démodé_ red and white English gentleman outfit combined with brown high hunting boots gave him an air of a living relic, so out of his time that he didn’t even feel real.

_“And who is this, Mister Burke? Another of your dolls? A tad too young for my tastes, I must admit, but I am not a judgmental man.”_

Not even his voice had felt real. His high-pitched tenor tonality and the exaggerated posh English accent spoke of deception, of untrue appearances, of fake aristocracy.

The old man had been a big lie, all of him.

She recalled answering him very formally but secretly outraged to be catalogued as a “doll”. Dolls were meant to play with, and she wasn’t a plaything.

_“Sir, I’m not a doll, I’m a soldier, sir.”_

Her martial-yet-daring answer had momentarily taken aback the fake old man until he had started to laugh.

_“And she spokes!” – _he had exclaimed while taking hold of her small chin between his long bony soft hands, amused_ – “Still so young. Pity. Her unblemished skin and brattish charm are something I myself might enjoy to have around from time to time. Maybe five more years, a dainty dress and a shower would do wonders to this one. Where did you acquire her, Mister Burke?”_

Then, the weight of a bigger hand over her tiny left shoulder had sent waves of sticky heat and dread all over said joint, neck and cheeks. She hated when that happened, get heated and flustered when she felt either embarrassed or apprehensive. It sent the wrong signals to the wrong people.

And the owner of that very heavy red hand was the last person she had wanted witnessing her feeling vulnerable. _He_ was the kind who knew how to fully exploit that.

Shuddering with fear and repulse at the memory of _his_ hand upon her shoulder, Six’s ears didn’t even register the soft _ding_ that announced the end of the haul until Victor’s rather _inappropriate_ cheery voice awakened her from her reverie.

_“Sorry for getting in the middle of ye and yer dilly-dallying date with the air, pardner, but Boss is waiting for ya already, so get a move on!”_ – it exclaimed amicably, but Six could hear already the order behind the artificially animated tone, so she inhaled deeply, combed her rebellious short hair with her shaking fingers and emerged from the elevator, turning at the stairs on the left.

_“Well, hello again, sugar!”_ – the also robotic voice of Jane, House’s interactive ‘entertainer’, greeted her as if they were intimate friends – _“Mr. House is waiting for you in his office.” _– however, as Six’s deflated posture got in its sensors’ Field Of View, the feminine interface added – _“Aw… Feeling low today, darling? How about a nice hot bath and a shoulder massage after your business with Mr. House has concluded? You know that you have relaxing perfumed bath salts at your disposition and, as for the massage… I bet the white-haired young man waiting for you downstairs would gladly provide if you simply ask him, you know what I mean?”_ – it added, a hint of a suggestive tone no machine without a copy of a real human woman’s neuro-computational matrix would be able to recreate – _“I know that from experience. A true lady knows best in these matters, trust me.”_ – it ended, conspirationally.

Halting briefly to give the feminine securitron a bewildered look, Six quickly descended the stairs wondering what _Zorro_ would be doing awake downstairs at this hour.

Did he hear her? Did he watch…?

**“So, the prodigal daughter returns.”** – House’s refined, mildly condescending artificial voice reached her before she had the giant screen fully in front of her – **“You've been a busy courier, haven't you? And yet you do not bear all the fruits of your success with you.” **

“Benny was more resourceful than I anticipated.” – Six answered straightly. After barely two previous conversations with this… sort of Orwellian 1984’s half human, half neuro-computational machine of a Big Brother, and Six already knew he detested inane conversation to beat around the bush – “I managed to get him alone in a secluded place out of earshot by pretending I bought his game. He insinuated that I could ‘help’ him rule New Vegas, but it seems that either he already knew I was going to kill him no matter what or that his intentions had been to betray me right from the start.”

**“I surmised that much.”** – the immobile portrait on the screen contemplated her with cold eyes while the speakers at both sides replied – **“Events have transpired in a... _less-than-optimal fashion_. Benny has fled the Strip, and the Platinum Chip has not been recovered.”**

“Not everything is lost. I managed to recover vital information from one of Benny’s… databases.” – said Six, detesting herself immensely, first for hiding information from the only entity that could interpose between her and Burke, and also for, unconsciously, feeling more at ease in front of a screen than in front of a true human being. That was mainly why she totally disregarded House’s permanent dispassionate and haughty voice tone as a mere programmed audio interface. She didn’t have any delusions, though; she knew the man was human and _very real_ behind that screen… but she couldn’t bring herself to think of him as more than a lonely old man who had been surrounded by copies of human neuro-computational matrix and artificial personalities he probably had developed through years and years with a lot of time between his hands… providing that he still retained anything more of his physical person than his brain submerged in a prepared tank full of Bio-Med Gel. She knew that such an option was possible, she had studied it, it was the same principle with the robobrains – “He expected to gain control over your securitrons by means of reprograming them once he managed to upgrade their software trough an underground facility beneath Fortification Hill that has, as you probably already knew, the special hardware capable of reading the Chip.”

House’s screen remained silent for a short while.

**“Very well.”** – he finally answered – **“I see that you are a very diligent investigator and a loyal employee, as you have shown your cards. Both qualities that I find very desirable in a human agent and, thus, why I am going to… _reformulate_ the terms of our business contract.”** – his voice, even artificial, betrayed a slight cautious undertone that hadn’t been there before. Six liked that, for it showed how much vital this information was that the man wanted to win her over any other powerful forces, namely the NCR or even the Legion, who could offer her a sweeter deal than being just a mere courier doing her job – **“Benny must be pursued, and the Platinum Chip, recovered; there’s no room for negotiation in that.”** – he stated – **“However, as we have more pressing matters that affect directly the Strip, I am willing to wait until your… _new ally_ from Caesar’s Legion act accord his rank and informs his Lord of your ‘willing’ adherence to their cause.”** – he ended severely while Six visibly paled – **“Of course, I expect nothing but loyalty from you when it will come to _persuade_ the young man that you are Legion material.” **– then, following his words, a smaller screen from the many that surrounded the big one where House represented himself, turned on, showing a camera perspective focusing on the main corridor of the Presidential Suite where, sitting on the carpeted floor, his features illuminated by the amberish light emitting from his Pip-Boy (a customization she had implemented while he had been unconscious, having in mind to simply spare his sensitive retinas from hurting), _Zorro_ was fumbling with the device while having the earphones on.

Six, whose body had started perspiring the moment House had announced his knowledge on the nature of _Zorro_’s allegiance, found herself shivering as cold sweat trailed down her back.

The camera zoomed and only _Zorro_’s harmonic features and white waves remained in sight. He was evidently enjoying himself with the music if the pensive, yet relaxed countenance settled on his face was any indication.

Same as when she had seen him asleep, he looked extremely young and soft, a ghost of the child he still was ingrained in the depths of his blue eyes, not an ounce of the reserved, moody, Machiavellian guy she had gotten used to in the last twenty-four hours.

“Please, don’t kill him.” – she found herself saying, her eyes still fixated upon _Zorro_’s face – “He might prove useful. He has helped me already when I confronted Benny. Were not for his intervention, I might be dead.”

**“Have you not been listening, girl?”** – replied House’s voice with slight impatience – **“I said that, as long as he serves his purpose, which is granting you access to Fortification Hill, where his Lord’s encampment has established, I have no qualms over you two _fraternizing_… in the way you deem best to gain his trust. The rest about entrapping Benny and recovering the Platinum Chip from his person… Caesar himself will provide, I’m sure.”**

Then, Six suddenly understood.

“Y… you mean…” – she stuttered, switching from shivering cold to awkwardly flustered within a second – “That’s… not my intention towards him…”

**“Oh?”** – inquired the man’s synthetic voice with a mildly bored tone – **“And what, _do pray tell_, was your _intention_ when you decided to invite a _Legion spy_ on _my_ casino, little Miss?”** – however, he went on a pause, as if he were weighing some other possibilities – **“Nevertheless… I forgot how teenagers tend to romanticize things, and you are, by all means, an irritating, hormonal teenager. So, what it will be, my dear? Plain girlish _infatuation_, or more on the _‘Romeo and Juliet’_ side, hmmm? Do you _really_ think that you can dissuade him into _defecting_ for, what, _love_ or such adolescent nonsense?”**

“No!” – she exclaimed, frustrated. Why did everyone had to link their association to the _same damn thing_?! – “I… I just…” – she stammered – “There’s not… many young people around… And my friends behave more like… guardians than friends sometimes…” – she steeled herself, knowing very well how silly it was going to sound her next choice words – “So… I just wanted… a friend…”

**“Preposterous.”** – the man scoffed – **“Would you truly believe that a boy that belongs to a backwards culture that have been feeding on conquering _savages_ and _tribals_ to support their military force; a boy who has grown into beliefs such as worshipping a _man_ as a _Roman god_ and looking at women and seeing little more than _breeding cattle,_ would want to befriend a non-Legion girl _of all people_?”** – he gave a polite, although curt laugh – **“Really, my young and misguided courier, you’re so brilliant at some things… while at others a mere _simpleton_ would act far more sensible than you.”** – he spat disdainfully, making the image of the albino boy disappear from the side screen – **“No matter. Do as I say and everything shall present in due time as a shiny future for you and your allies. However, I have not yet finished with the terms I want to stipulate on our business contract.”** – he added, now his voice firm yet entirely business-like – **“Besides dealing with Benny _and_ the Legion in their respective ways, I want you to go back to The Tops in order to wipe all the sensitive data Benny stole. For that, you will use this USB device that you will insert into the terminal where you acquired the information.”** – a small compartment similar to the apertures old banks ATM’s sported when you extracted money from your bank account opened in the lower right side of the huge terminal that House used to communicate with her. Inside, a tiny USB with the RobCo Logo printed on it awaited her – **“Inside, you will find a standard Executable File that you, either by direct insertion onto said terminal or through wireless connection from your Pip-Boy, will open while inside the computer’s OS. It is a virus that would only recognize your device as friendly, for it distinguishes between any terminal-related OS and our unique coding for the Pip-OS, so you shouldn’t fear for your archives.”** – he knew. He knew what she was capable of, and that was why he was bothering giving her so much information. She took the offering wordlessly – **“Besides this, you will act as my human representative in front of the Three Families, starting with the Chairmen. I want you to extend this contract…”** – he carried on while a last generation industrial printer by the right side vomited a long wordy paper after another, completing a total of forty folios – **“A copy for me and a copy for Swank, to whom I now bestow the charge of President of The Tops, that you are going to read in loud voice to his person so he understands the points that are absolutely _not_ debatable after Benny’s treason. I expect this contract and its due copy signed by Swank right after the instant you finish reading it to him. Should he would not give a straightforward _positive_ answer before your departure, it will be considered treason that will be swiftly punished right after you would abandon their casino. No more, no less.”**

Once the printer finished its work, Six took the papers and put them inside a plastic white RobCo folder in pristine condition that she found over a nearer desk.

**“Once this work is finished, with satisfactory results I hope, your next objectives would be the White Glove Society and the Omertas. In that order.”** – House kept speaking – **“For the details of how you should operate with each Family, I will provide them once your deals with Swank are resolved. Prove me that you are capable of dealing with these ‘domestic problems’ along with the recovering of the Platinum Chip… and you would be assigned far more important and_ lucrative_ tasks.”**

Six sighed, aware that her and her friends’ economy wasn’t precisely stellar. And they needed the money to buy Rex an adequate brand-new brain from the Old Lady Gibson’s Scrap Yard, near Novac.

Funny how the King had entrusted her with finding Rex’s cure… but wouldn’t entrust her with a single cap of his. She supposed that it was only caution towards a possible scam, and she didn’t resent the King for that… but, once Rex would be intervened, she would keep him. _Her_ money, _her_ dog.

**“Now, to the clauses on your contract that would benefit you.”** – House said suddenly, which did wonder helping her concentrating on what he was saying – **“Of course, your efforts will be rewarded in the common currency any Wastelander would negotiate with: caps. From hundreds to thousands if you keep proving me a useful asset.”** – he added, deliberately leaving the numbers unprecise so she would keep wondering, piquing her greed and curiosity – **“But here lies a sweeter end of the deal: free and very comfortable lodging that could be extended indefinitely if you serve me well, free supplies of both consumables and ammunition for you and your allies’ content and…”** – he allowed a few seconds of dramatic tension impregnating the air as his next words laid down her ears – **“… An even _sweeter_ proposition that I think you would find the more interesting of all.”** \- followed immediately his words, another small side screen scintillated a bit until it showed a written record.

A written record that was about her.

There was an old photography, taken when she still had her beautiful hair long enough to plait it in a cute braid that cascaded over her right shoulder, her visage bony and somber, intense shadows under intense black sunken eyes; her skin two or three tones paler than now, her nose freckles absent and her smile non-existent. She had been profoundly unhappy when that photo had been taken.

And there had been the suit. Synthetic but made to aid the skin to breathe, blue with some brushstrokes of intense yellow, a number painted over where her left breast should have been… if there wasn’t for the extreme slimness that sported on that photo.

She looked sad and ill. It was like meeting a foreigner part of herself that, somehow, two bullets had made her forget.

She wished she could forget that again.

* * *

** _“Vault 5, outside the Cambridge District of the Commonwealth.”_ ** _ – had been the placid answer the person behind her had delivered with that gravelly voice of his, rich, warm and poisonous as a snake’s bite. His big, red right hand heavy over her tiny shoulder – **“She and the other twenty-nine youngsters we found inside were intact. All vent systems and electricity were functioning at minimum energy cost so the condensers may endure the pass of time, full securitron security awakened once we managed to get inside, though. These darlings had been pampered by their Old World Government through and through.”** – he had added, putting a stray long black strand of hair behind her ear – **“All healthy and well-fed, untouched by radiation, no deformities or medical conditions, and with their**_ ** _reproductive systems fully operational. The medical report we found on their clinic was very thorough.”_**

_They talked as if she had been merchandise, and she had felt disgusted by the way the fake old gentleman’s eyes had lit when he had mentioned the reproductive systems part._

_Later, she would find that fertility was a rather expensive and rare quality for “commodities” like them that would substantially increase their value on the market._

_The old man and her “new guardian”, as he had put it with that ability of his, making the appropriation of her person look like he was sort of adopting her, had kept discussing numbers and transactional business. They had mentioned a place called “Paradise Falls”, how many should they kept, how many should they sold and how much they should ask for each one of them._

_And she had remained quiet, thinking a way of getting herself a weapon again and dispose of as many of her comrades as she could before they would be sold._

_That was how she had been raised, that had been part of her training._

_Those had been her orders._

_And she had tried… she had tried so hard to fulfill them…_

_The first time had been awful when the mercs had lowered their guard and had left a rifle barely at six meters of where she had been. A quick sprint, safety mechanism off and then V.A.T.S._

_She had only managed to detonate a single bomb collar. The lucky one had been a boy, the youngest of all of them. Eleven years old._

_An exploded bomb collar had been mercy compared to being sold to some pervert who would abuse him and rob him of his childhood._

_She had cried the moment they had reduced her and had taken the gun from her hands._

_And then him… the god, the man, the ghost, the guru… Had taken an interest in her._

_She hadn’t even been thirteen and he had been forty._

_Many of the other girls a couple or three years older than her that the fake old gentleman had kept for his own amusement had hated her, saying that she was fortunate, that Burke seemed nice, that he was handsome and way younger than Alistair Tenpenny._

_They hadn’t even know the half of it._

_Burke’s interest hadn’t been sexual at all… but rather an experiment of his._

_Every single one of them had been deprived of their Pip-Boy devices… except her._

_At first, she had been grateful for that… but later, she had discovered that, besides being a tool meant to be used under Burke’s orders, the man would use every opportunity to remind her how easily he could deprive her of all of her music, books, videogames and movies. How easily he could erase all of her world by making a thorough wiping and reset the device to Factory Settings, how easily those photos, those recordings, those messages sent by those she had loved once… could disappear within a snap of his fingers._

_The first time he had punished her, she had been deprived of her SD card for a whole week. Next time, when she had tried to escape, she had been deprived of the entire device a month while he had made her believe that he had erased all of her data. The way she had cried out of happiness and gratefulness the moment Burke had returned her old device intact to her had been the first tangible outcome of his incessant, although subtle, psychological mistreatment towards her._

_All his punishments would never be physical… but mental lashing also leaves its due scarring._

_However, either by means of reading her medical record back in the Vault, either out of pure good instinct, Burke had known from minute one that the girl he had managed to get a hold of was not just the smarter of her whole former squadron, but a gifted child that suited him just fine for his own hidden agenda._

_First, more of a test than anything, he had made her rewire and configure the entire inner web installation of the building, repair all the terminals and computers and re-conditioning them for the tower residents’ not-so-private-as-they-were-induced-to-believe use._

_That had been alright, so she could exercise her knowledge on the field she loved most and ignore the looks of sadness, then shame, then envy, then hatred from the other girls she couldn’t save._

_Next thing had been helping repair some old motorcycles and an all-terrain Toyota for Burke’s personal use. Her instructor had been the local mechanist, an old man whose name she didn’t remember but whose breath stinking of cheap alcohol she recalled as if it had been yesterday. He had tried to touch her once while being severely inebriated. V.A.T.S. and sturdy military boots with a good aiming to the crotch had been her saviors._

_Later, Burke had started to bring her books. Chemistry and robotic engineering-oriented books. He had been asking how a fusion pulse charge could be made and which kind of materials she would require for such a thing._

_She had been thirteen when Burke had decided to bring her with him on a very particular excursion of his own._

_The town’s name now escaped her memory, but she recalled that it had been constructed around an old nuclear head that, presumably, was inoperative. The local sheriff had given Burke the eye, warning him about what they thought there about strangers attempting to make trouble, next asking her if she, indeed, was his daughter._

_That had been the first real opportunity that had presented to get rid of her jailor for good._

_But Burke had been lately really nice to her, feeding her almost non-existing self-esteem (also, the result of his relentless one-whole-year-doing as well) about how useful and unique she was, how vital her contribution to Tenpenny Tower and, soon enough, to the world, was._

_He called her “Birdie” and she was happy to feel, at last, any appreciation towards her very existence._

_So, she had lied to the good sheriff and Burke had purchased a house on the town._

_In the next weeks, while keeping appearances in front of the rest of the community as father and daughter, they operated by night by means of sizing, scanning and evaluating the bomb’s inner mechanisms, contrasting all the pre-War data they had about these models, searching for diplomatic outcomes to make the civilians reconsider their choice of home around a bomb._

_However, Alistair Tenpenny wasn’t, by any means, a charity founder, so dissuading people to abandon their homes without an alternative choice to turn to was… an unpleasant experience that got them more glares and warnings about being ditched out of the town that they had cared to count._

_But, despite their less-than-ideal situation in a town made of metal scrap constructed around a bomb that, they later discovered, was still very much alive; Six had felt genuinely happy and safe amidst the dirty water local pumping system, the stench of brahmin depositions and unwashed people… and Burke’s constant bitching about what a cesspool they had themselves gotten into. She had felt how the one-year tension she had been accumulating on the tower quickly vanished socializing with other human beings that didn’t regard her as some cockroach under Burke’s heel. She had enjoyed having Sugar Bombs for breakfast and noodles for lunch every single day at the local cafeteria while prematurely aged people kept smiling at her with dirty, crooked teeth, asking her normal questions like where her mom was, how long she had been traveling with her dad on the desert and what they did for a living._

_Normal people treating her like a normal kid. She had forgotten how that felt._

_She always answered with half-truths Burke had essayed with her so they would strike as true. She had been fine with that, even if this charade of theirs was an entirely fabricated lie, she had enjoyed being normal for once again. She had forgotten how much she missed her Big Bro, his sweet wife she had once called “Big Sis”, mommy, daddy, and her bestie, the one she kept the most messages from._

_Lately, Burke had been spending way too much time on the local Saloon, where her admission was out of the question being underage and all. However, his interest had died within a week and, as they had gotten all the data they needed, the man took them back to Tenpenny Tower, where he prepared her a small workshop where she spent the next three months building the desired customized fusion pulse charge._

_Once she was done, she had handed it to Burke with an eager look that was looking for the approval he, quite delighted, provided her with._

_Then, he was gone the next day._

_She was sure that, with the conversations they had with the locals of that distant city, Burke was attempting to bring up some negotiation that would “dissuade” the people residing there to change their home location so he could own the place and make it a profitable… whatever he had planned for. Using the fusion pulse charge as leverage was the logical option. Tenpenny was always bitching about what a stain on the landscape the town in question supposed and Burke, always the loyal employer, had come up with a solution. After all, were they not always talking about “burgeoning urban landscapes” and business? Perhaps, by emptying the town and taking a hold of it, Burke would order to construct another private business! One that would, hopefully, take her away from the prissy, haughty residents of Tenpenny Tower, the accusing looks of her old remaining comrades, and Alistair Tenpenny himself, who was starting to look at her with greedy eyes after two of the four girls he had kept for himself had committed double suicide one night._

_They had been braver than her._

_Nonetheless, Burke did not make an act of appearance until almost a whole month had passed. And, when he returned, he wasn’t alone._

_A young blonde woman dressed in military fashion had her slender but also muscled arm linked with Burke’s while a silent, giant redhead ghoul trailed behind them with a pistol in each hand, ready to start shooting should anyone dared to provoke him._

_Burke’s expression was one Six had never seen since she had known him: while he kept his mask of elegant nonchalance firmly set on his features, on the other hand, his eyes, that were normally steely, reserved and unrepentant, held at that moment behind tortoiseshell dark glasses a look… of pure dreamily haze._

_That sole detail had made Six wary immediately. If this young lady was capable of putting such a look on the eyes of a man like Burke, there was no telling how incredibly manipulative she could be and how far she could get having such a powerful man as him eating from the palm of her hand that way._

_She held herself very firmly, her body a testament of constant physical prowess; her long, beautiful sunny hair tied up in a high neat ponytail, combed and smooth as honey, a veiled confession of both vanity and excellent upbringing._

_And her green eyes, cold and feral like a starved predator, a bold declaration of her less-than-honorable intentions._

_That young woman had been a ruthless opportunist, and Burke had been charmed._

_She had been incredibly beautiful and sophisticated, everything that none of the available ladies residing on Tenpenny Tower was, and she could string a full sentence without cursing and/or repeating a single word of her polished, very colorful vocabulary._

_The slightly outdated version of the Pip-Boy she had been wearing on her left wrist had given Six an idea of where she might hail from._

_However, this woman hadn’t been invited just because her cold beauty had managed to breach through Burke’s defenses, but rather because she and the aforementioned man had business._

_Business that Six, horrified, had seen unfolding before her very own eyes._

_Laura, for that had been her name, Six recalled with bone-chilling intensity, had been immediately assigned a luxurious suite where she had taken a long bath and had changed into a formal, although flattering pre-War feminine business suit. Her long hair prim-and-proper styled in a sultry way that reminded more on the Jessica Rabbit side had been subtly scented the moment she had respectfully approached Alistair Tenpenny on his balcony, eliciting an envious look from the old man towards his younger employee as she kept sticking to the latter's firm arm that had guided her towards the detonator of the fusion pulse charge Six had constructed a month ago._

_The titan ghoul had been left behind, just beside the small bony thirteen-year-old as Burke had requested her presence when “The Event”, as he had called it, would unfold._

_She had been in denial of what had been about to happen, but the moment Laura’s index finger had pressed the button, then a sudden brightness that had covered all and the ghoul’s hands were over both her eyes and mouth, for she hadn’t noticed the piercing scream that had escaped from her lips._

_For, before her eyes, had passed her whole life a second time, just like that day when…_

_She had lost consciousness when the light had extinguished and Tenpenny had been applauding at the show while Laura’s eyes had been shielded from the light as her lithe form had melted between Burke’s broad shoulders while the man murmured softly into her hair about inspiration._

_And she, while playing the damsel part against Burke’s chest, had flaunted a cruel smile with those rouge lips of hers._

* * *

Silent tears were streaming down Six’s eyes while she kept observing that old photo that reminded her of unhappy days of fear and self-loathing as she kept vomiting her meals both to prevent Alistair Tenpenny from looking twice at her and to punish herself for all of her many sins.

Because that bomb hadn’t been the last Burke had detonated using her as an intermediate errand girl. That was how she had gotten the courier job in the first place.

**“You see.”** – Robert House’s synthetic voice awakened her from her loop state of unwanted reminiscences – **“I am a man of resources and, by the moment, I have managed to unearth your surname accompanied of bits and pieces of information about your past that, I am sure, will be growing substantially in the upcoming months as my hand reaches far within the New California Republic’s inner politics.”** – this, he stated proudly, as if flaunting his power, his ability to influence far beyond many would suspect from a man that nobody had seen his true face – **“Information that I will gladly share with you as long as you keep your good work and your loyalties in place.”** – suddenly, the printer that had previously vomited the renewed contract with the new leader of the Chairmen started working again, filling its outbox with several papers – **“These are mere formalities, you understand, but I must ask of you the same I ask from my other employees: to sign a contract that will establish our business relationship as official, miss Sullivan.”**

Startled both by the unfamiliar sensation of being called by any other name than ‘Courier Six’ and the suddenly familiar surname, Six displaced her eyes from her sad portrait to the left side of the report.

It read _‘J. P. Sullivan’_.

And she remembered.

_“Hey, Sulli! Wanna play ‘Grognak & the Ruby Ruins’? It’s an RPG we can reproduce on our Pip-Boys, and I happen to own a brand-new copy, gurl!”_

Her bestie. She used to call her _‘Sulli’_.

_“Is this your lost rascal, Lieutenant Sullivan?”_

Her Big Bro… he had been _Lieutenant Sullivan_.

_“Well, Mrs. Sullivan, what amazing news do we have for this sister of mine that had kept pestering us about her favorite topic of late? Maybe that in eight months that very topic will become a reality?”_

_“You two preggy, Big Bro?! For real?!”_

And her smiling _‘Big Sis’_.

_“Well, I am certainly not the one who will be sporting a swollen belly in the future, that’s for sure.”_

_“No, Mr. Sullivan, but you will be certainly sporting a swollen black eye if you keep the jokes on that direction.”_

_“Awwwww… You’re a No Fun Mom for sure, hon.”_

She had been _Mrs. Sullivan_.

Raising a hand to cover her mouth, Six… _Sulli_ didn’t know whether laughing or crying… or both at the same time.

In just one night, even with her nightmares renovated, her also most treasured memories were slowly resurfacing, filling holes on that complicated, incomplete puzzle that her mind had become in the last months since her awakening.

She was Courier Six, a new girl with new friends and allies who was going to become House’s new human agent on the Mojave… she was also Birdie, Burke’s slave that would both fear and blindly adore him…

And now, she was this J.P. Sullivan who had been buried within her for so long… and still was. Was she Jane, like _Jane Eyre_? Janis, like _Janis Joplin_? Jennifer like… a lot of pre-War movie actresses? Jolene, like Dolly Parton’s song? Josephine, like Napoleon Bonaparte’s wife...? Or was she, indeed, a Juliet waiting for a Romeo to sweep her off her feet out of this desert? No, she wasn’t them, their names were recollections of her indecently extensive knowledge in geeky, useless stuff.

_Sulli_ was all she could hope for now. _Sulli_ was okay.

But she wasn’t prepared to be _Sulli_… just yet. Not in front of anybody, not with her new friends.

So, she went, hand still covering her mouth, to gather the contract and its due copy from the printer, read it while House’s voice rambled in the background of her mind and, after she revised everything and felt herself pleasantly satisfied with what her eyes gathered, signed.

And the signature came out so easily… so fluent and quick.

It read _‘Sullivan’_ again. Sullivan. Her surname was Sullivan.

**“I gather my terms seem fair enough?”** – the Orwellian man-machine asked, evidently pleased with her prompt favorable reaction – **“As you see, I can be perfectly reasonable despite how the NCR or even my other employees might depict me as a _‘dictator’_ while my only and true aim is to elevate the human race to its former glory… and even beyond!”** – he exclaimed – **“You see, miss Sullivan, New Vegas is more than a city: it's the remedy to mankind's _derailment_. The city's economy is a blast furnace in which can be forged the steel of a new rail line, running straight to a new horizon.”** – he argued, noticing through his visual sensors how his discourse was slowly winning the girl’s attention – **“What is the NCR? A society of people desperate to experience comfort, ease, luxury... A society of _customers_. With all that money pouring in? Give me 20 years, and I'll reignite the high technology development sectors. 50 years, and I'll have people in orbit.”** – the bigger the girl’s eyes got, the bolder his statements became – **“100 years, and my colony ships will be heading for the stars, to search for planets unpolluted by the wrath and folly of a bygone generation.”** – when he noticed the girl briefly bristling at that, he pressed – “**Nothing to impede progress. If you want to see the fate of _democracies_, look out the windows.” **– he added contemptuously.

She didn’t need to do such a thing to evoke the images she had seen day after day since she was twelve. She knew what this Orwellian unnatural entity said was nothing… but the raw truth.

She did want, in fact, technological progress. She did want humankind stop fighting amongst each other to unite for a brighter future. She did want a Promised Land where to pour her hopes, expectations, and aspirations since she was twelve…

A hardened part of herself, the cynical one that came as soon as you start hitting adulthood, whispered that everything could very well turn out to be smoke and shadows, the tricks of a seasoned cheater more used to hidden his cards than dealing a fair hand to the rest of players.

But she was still young, and the renewed hope her recently-activated memories had left in her was hard to squish beneath the boot of logics.

So, she had pledged herself to House, to his vision, to his promises.

She had kept one copy of her contract, House the other, both signed. The moment she had departed, a smile upon her young, tired face and words of gratitude upon her lips, she had gazed up at the enormous face one more time. Five months of mixed signals and opinions it had taken her to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two salty tears trickled down the sides of her nose as she embarked again the elevator. But it was alright, everything was alright, the struggle was finished. She had won the victory over herself. She loved Big Brother.

Just like she had loved the god, the man, the ghost, the guru hidden behind tortoiseshell dark glasses.

Because, when the rats come chomping, we are all capable of loving Big Brother.

* * *

Vulpes’ sleepy eyes blinked slowly meanwhile the letters of the electronic book he had chosen to distract himself while he waited danced mockingly in front of him.

Now that he thought about it, throwing himself with almost blind confidence that he could endure, in the long hours of the night, a book called _‘I, Claudius’_, even written by the agile prose of an English pre-War writer… had been way too presumptuous, even coming from him, that had the privilege of being one of the few allowed by Caesar himself to read titles such as _‘The Twelve Caesars’_ by Suetonius, a book far older and difficult to read than this one.

But Vulpes’ body today wasn’t synchronized with his agile mind, and fatigue was winning the war against his stubbornness a tad too fast for his liking.

He should have stuck to just listening to music.

However, his foggy mind soon got the necessary stimulation to make himself almost jump from his sitting spot to immediately stand up as soon as the elevator’s lights twinkled and a soft _ding_ followed ensue, opening the metallic doors to reveal the also weary figure of the Courier, who remained inside the lift’s small quadrangle for a moment, her lowered head lifting slowly, puffy reddened eyes crowning an unhappy smile that accompanied her while she abandoned the elevator and the doors closed behind her back.

Darkness poured around them while they exchanged tired looks in the gloom, Vulpes gazing at her smaller form, remembering out of the blue the tingling sensation her small hand had left on his long fingers when she had risen from the conjoined beds to take a break from the first part of the movie trilogy everyone had swallowed without complaints the previous day.

He dismissed the thought as a mere consequence of his current fatigue.

* * *

While the silent quadrangle of the lift enclosed her during her traveling downwards the Presidential Suite, the girl also known as Courier Six, formerly named Birdie by a bad, bad man, now palating the idea of becoming _Sulli_ again… decided to put the RobCo folder under her shirt while she activated her Pip-Boy interface again, knowing very well how low on battery the device was, and tapped a few menus until she found her backup message load data.

Fumbling a bit with the application without alerting Burke, Laura or any other with her device ID on the other end of the line of her current Online status, she went on Hidden Mode and checked the old messages.

Not the ones written from the unyielding red right hand or the ones composed with the cold detachment of the panther-eyed woman, but the ones full of typos and cute emoticons pertaining to a twelve-year-old.

The last entry read as follows:
    
    
      **
                   , , , , ,
                   # # # # #
                  _#_#_#_#_#_
                 {_` ` ` ` `_}
                _{_._._._._._}_
               {_  H A P P Y  _}
              _{_._._._._._._._}_
             {_ B I R T H D A Y _}
         .---{_._._._._._._._._._}---.
        (   `"""""""""""""""""""""`   )
         `~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`**
    

** _PD: luv ya, stupid <3_ **

ASCII text art. They were such a pair of geeks, the two of them…

She had recalled her bestie’s name the moment she had opened the messages while she had been in the bathroom. She found that they didn’t affect her as negatively as they had done a couple hours ago.

**_“<3_****_~_****_<3_****_~_****_<3_****_ MANDY _****_<3_****_~_****_<3_****_~_****_<3”_** had been her Online nickname.

“I miss you so much, Amanda…” – she whispered – “I miss you so, so damn much…”

Nevertheless, once the elevator arrived to its intended destination and the doors opened before her, she didn’t know what she was expecting, but _Zorro_ was still there.

She gave him a tired look coupled with an insincere smile. What else should she do? What she was supposed to say when he gave her that serene, sleepy, very blue look?

She took a few unsure steps towards the main corridor and a gloomy atmosphere enveloped them as soon as the elevator closed its doors and deprived them of a source of light.

They looked at each other in the dark, she suddenly aware that they were just the two of them and that she craved a hug so much.

But then, she thought about all the commentaries everyone had been making about the two of them. A girl and a boy.

She suddenly realized that he wasn’t Amanda, that he could never substitute her as she wished. Nobody could fill the emptiness sweet Mandy had left inside of her.

He was a boy. Just like the one Mandy and she had secretly crushed on while on the academy.

He had been of Arabic ancestry. Warm dark skin and pretty green eyes. His name something soft and pleasant to the ear, his smile bright and charmingly boyish.

He had been one of the first to be subjected to the Purge.

And then more… many, many more had soon followed…

A soft panting broke the spell as the muffled pitter-patter sounds of Rexie’s metallic paws entered the scene to direct his comforting presence towards her, who immediately dropped to her knees and gave the cybernetic canine a much-needed hug.

She poured all of her sadness, her misery, her longing and the love that overflowed her at that very moment, in seek of a chalice that could hold such a torrent of emotions, both good and bad in equal measures, on that hug, allowing the dog’s healing aura to cocoon her, soothing her aching heart.

The animal gave her all the comfort, muzzling and soft, tender licking she wanted until she felt better and she slowly released him, grateful for such a loving companion. She then raised her head and saw _Zorro_’s chalky hand extended towards her.

* * *

Not knowing what came over him and too tired to ponder on his clearly altered brain processes, Vulpes’ naked feet moved on their own accord until he was in front of the girl and the dog, waited until she felt satisfied with the affection she was claiming from the animal and extended his hand to her, his fingers already tingling in anticipation.

She slowly raised her face, looking first at his hand, then to him with an astonished look that slowly melted into something much softer.

She lifted her hand. Her chilly, tiny fingers met tentatively his calloused phalanges and soon, an unsure contact became a firm connection that lifted her from the ground and did not end there.

For they, silently, walked hand in hand towards the guest dorm area, Rex happily following in tow, so they could resume their much-needed rest.

They ended with the dog between them again, but their hands, not giving much thought to the question, remained linked through the night over the canine’s fur.

With that, even unknowingly and despite his reservations towards her intentions - implicitly demonstrated by him staying late until she had returned - and the RobCo folder under her shirt that she had kept hidden from him now getting her chest sweaty and sticky, they had sealed their mutual sympathy.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "Brother! Brother, wait!"  
(2) - "Dad says that getting near that place is forbidden!"  
(3) - "Leave it alone! We have to go!"  
(4) - "stupids" / "pretty blondie"  
(5) - "What is that?"  
(6) - "A book with illustrations. It's in English."  
(7) - "How do you know?"  
(8) - "I recognize some of the words. I still don't know how to read well, but my mother knows. I'll ask her about what the book says."  
(9) - "You shouldn't have entered."  
(10) - "Coward, chicken-shit. Captain of the Sardines art thee!" (typical Spanish children's rhyme to mock someone for their lack of courage).  
(11) - "Can we see it?"
> 
> (Side Note: I know that the animal "Hyena" is written with a "Y"... but that's in English. In Spanish, it is written as "Hiena". Yep, in Vulpes' tribe were keen on canine-derivated names :P)
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: this chapter, as emotionally fucked up as it has unfolded, was written with a bit of frustration since the previous version I had nearly half of it written went erased when... certain someone borrowed without permission the pendrive where I had it and... decided that some Word docs weren't much of a loss and... used it to mount a Windows 10 image.  
So, yes, I threw on a silent tantrum and neglected this fic until said tantrum would be appeased with time and inspiration.  
I'm still whining about how much better the previous attempt was (like I fucking remember all the stupid details) but what's done, it's done. I hope the waiting had been worth the result.  
Comments, suggestions? I'm seriously a bit hysterical right now, so feedback would be LOVED. Thank you for putting up with me and my ramblings T_T  
Also: kudos for guessing which song from a very famous video game saga Vulpes was listening :D  
Also too, yeah, I totally copied the last paragraph from Orwell's 1984 book. So? :P


	7. A horse with no name

* * *

Vulpes awakened that morning with the smell of pancakes treacherously filling his nostrils.

His head felt dull and hurt a little, his tongue tasted bitter and pasty and his stomach coupled with his bladder seemed to have reached an agreement to torment him from first hour in the morning.

Raising so slow from the bed that he felt like a thousand bricks have been put around his body, he dragged inelegantly his slouching form towards the bathroom to find the door locked while the noise of water running from the inside could be heard.

Oh, how he hated pre-War medicines' secondary effects while recovering from radiation poisoning…

"Locked, huh?" – he heard the already animated voice from the small brunette woman, Veronica, talking by his left while she stuck her ear to the locked room's door – "Tough luck. It's Arcade." – she added after a few seconds, retiring her ear from the door – "I just don't know what his deal with privacy is. I mean… he has nothing to hide, and the installations are for common use." – she reasoned – "It's not like the bathtubs here don't have curtains if he's so squeamish…"

_Or maybe he HAS something to hide._ – was Vulpes' immediate thought while the only sound his lips made was an annoyed groan as he pressed his forehead to the nearest wall, seeking to appease his dull headache.

"Yeah, _Jimmy_." – Veronica agreed, rubbing her eyes while yawning – "I totally feel ya in this one."

Not a minute after, Boone joined them, a white towel over his naked shoulder as he had slept without the upper part of his pajamas. He still had the _stupid_ sunglasses on, noted Vulpes, whose shitty mood kept rising as the minutes passed, his headache got worse and the damn door wouldn't open.

"Owww… my head…" – a fourth voice moaned as muffled naked steps approached from behind them – "Wh… the fuck's with the fucking privy's door shut?!" – Cass, as it was none other than her, after watching Veronica mouthing _'Arcade'_ as explanation, started banging the door, to Vulpes' much chagrin – "Hey!" – she exclaimed, making the young man cover both his ears with his hands – "The privy's for everybody, asshole! If I'm not putting my sweet cheeks on a goddamned toilet within a minute, I'm fucking peeing all over your spare clothes!"

_By Mars…_ – the Frumentarius thought while still covering his ears - _These people are completely insane…_

However, despite her methods, he had to concede some credit to this Cassidy woman when, not a whole minute after her unsubtle warning, the door creaked open.

A dense gust of steam washed over the four as a tall silhouette emerged from the mist fully clothed, pajamas under his arm, wet blonde hair and fogged spectacles over shy eyes that were quite conscious of the hate looks he was receiving right now.

"Toilet Time!" – the Cassidy woman exclaimed before making the doctor aside, her pants and panties already half down her thighs, not an ounce of modesty on that woman, as she presented her ass to the throne – "Shiiiiit… this is so good…"

Arcade took a step aside as the other three poured inside the bathroom, any possible grudges quickly forgotten as Boone and Veronica picked their share of bathtubs while Vulpes appreciated the near-blinding steam around so he could have some privacy, first when he relieved himself, later when he occupied the remaining available bathtub.

The warm water actually did wonders for his stiff neck and throbbing headache… until the curtain that separated the bathtub from the rest of the room opened violently.

First, Vulpes was silently grateful that his body had been orientated towards said curtain so the person on the other side couldn't see his scarred back and reach unwanted, dangerous conclusions… but soon, that gratefulness quickly turned into plain annoyance as he saw the shameless smile that decorated the Cassidy woman's cheeky visage.

"So, the carpet matches the drapes in your case, Tribal Boy." – she said, sticking casually her tongue inside one of her mouth's inner walls. She was having a good time and she didn't even care to hide it – "Interesting."

Vulpes' nostrils distended.

"Occupied." – was his succinct answer, though his tone conveyed how little amusing he found the situation. It wasn't that he felt ashamed of his body, lean and fibered to the last muscle like just any other legionary his age… but he didn't appreciate the leering he was being subjected to right now.

"Wanna share?" – was her impudent request, her blue eyes laughing as her body, covered only with her smalls, angled in a daring posture.

"No." – he replied, succinctly again. His eyes squinting to thin, dangerous slits.

Don't she _dared_… or she would end with quite a _nasty_ surprise. Unlike his former mentor, his 'blending with the background' policy had its limits. And _this_ was way off them.

With the Courier, given the potential allegiance interest she represented for Caesar, he could do an exception. But not with this woman.

He wasn't screwing a potential upper hand with the Courier just because this Profligate had an itch she wanted others to scratch.

Just like those perverted old rich women on the casinos who chased boys young enough to be their grandsons only because they were bored and they had money enough.

Only because they _can_.

However, unexpectedly, she threw her head back as she had a good laugh at his expense. Strands of bright red hair sticking to the sides of her freckled face.

"Relax, dude. I'm just messing with you." – she smiled with good humor – "You're too serious for your own good, you knew that? Friendly advice: don't become a 2.0 Version of Boone. You'll be way happier." – then, she winked playfully at him and proceeded to draw the curtains again – "Besides, you're still too young for my tastes. I'll come back when you have grown a beard." – with this, giggling, she finished moving the curtains and left him finally alone.

Although the shame and humiliation he felt right now, his ears burning angrily, wouldn't be so easy to shake off.

He had to keep in check his temper before doing something he would later regret when the curtain by his left, the one that separated his bathtub rectangle from the next, was vigorously shaken.

"Hey, _Jimmy_!" – Veronica's voice exclaimed happily amidst the water noise of her own shower at the other side – "Be nice and play a song with your Pip-Boy, will ya?"

Inhaling twice, Vulpes regained his composure, thinking how _now_ he understood the Followers doctor's deal with privacy as these people hadn't the thinnest respect for personal space (although he wasn't the one to talk about privacy when he had spent more years than he could remember sharing tents, latrines, and buckets of cold water with other boys), and deigned an answer.

"What?"

Veronica giggled from the other side of the curtain.

"I bet Six has put some music in your device before giving it to you. She said her old one has lots of music in it, c'mon!" – she moaned like a little whimsical kid – "Play a song!"

Thinking about calming himself and nothing more, he complied and, after fumbling a bit with the Advanced Settings, he programmed the Pip-Boy so it would reproduce music using a small side speaker as output channel instead of the earphones. Then, he picked a random song.

It was some sort of hymn, very powerful. It kept repeating something about people who will be _'rock you'_, which he hadn't the slightest idea what it could possibly mean.

"Yeah!" – he heard Veronica squealing, evidently delighted with his choice – "That's what I'm talking about!"

The song extension was enough for all of them finishing their showers and for Vulpes' nerves getting back in place.

He emerged from his 'bath stall' wearing his pajama trousers along with the white undershirt he always wore inside any clothing while being incognito. He had earned quite the observations from many women he had approached intimately about that particular, from _"Awww, you're shy, aren't you?"_ to _"Jeez, you're a tad weird, boy"_ or even _"That's the unsexiest thing I've ever seen"_.

But that was infinitely preferable than having to tell them a sob story explaining his scarred back about how, at some point, the Legion had captured and tortured him.

Which, he thought sometimes, wasn't that far from the truth.

"Don't mind much Cass." – with a black tank top and grey yoga pants that pointed out her outstanding developed musculature, Veronica joined him while following the pancakes' smell towards the kitchen area – "It's a sort of initiation prank of hers, you know?" – she explained, giving him an apologetic smile – "Boone and Arcade have suffered variations of the same thing already, so don't take it too personally."

"I see." – was his noncommittal answer while his mind pondered about exactly what _'initiation' _this group meant by doing things like this.

Once they reached the kitchen's entrance, they found Raul sitting alone in front of his workbench with a mug of coffee by his side while tinkering with the damaged eyebot, ED-E – oddly pronounced like "Eddie" - Vulpes had learned how they called it, while Rex was napping at the ghoul's feet.

Next to him, however, sitting on the kitchen main table were both Boone and Arcade smiling as they watched quietly how the Courier waltzed around Lily, earning from time to time soft patting on the head from the supermutant's enormous hand, while singing along with the song she was currently playing on her Pip-Boy.

She looked happy.

"Ha estado así desde primera horita de la mañana." – the ghoul muttered as Vulpes passed by his side to join the rest on the table – "Está bien contenta con su chisme de vuelta. Gracias por ayudarla, chavo." **_(1)_** – he added, flashing a small, full of corroded teeth, smile.

Not knowing how to answer to that, Vulpes limited himself to nod once and sat at the table, eyeing the mountain of warm pancakes hungrily as it landed on the center of the table.

However, when his fork aimed towards the fragrant bakings, Rex had approached him and now was putting his non-metallic frontal paw over Vulpes' hand while keeping equilibrium on both of his hind legs.

Amused by the canine's behavior, the Frumentarius aimed his fork towards his coffee and the dog repeated the action.

However, as soon as he aimed towards some Brahmin steak leftover from the previous day, the animal barked happily. Evidently, he was communicating what he wanted.

Vulpes had no problem in providing the dog its well-deserved prize and brought near the piece of meat… however, as soon as he angled towards the animal to give it to him, Vulpes noticed a faded red paint on the dog's metallic left side that almost made him choke on his own saliva: he would recognize the pattern anywhere, a red bull.

This animal was Legion's _property_. _Caesar's property_, to be precise.

Out of the corner of his eye, as everybody had finally gathered around the table, he noticed the Courier's black eyes over him.

It was subtle, as her expression wasn't betraying any emotion, but her eyes… her eyes were literally _pleading_ him not to bring up the subject. Ever.

Hesitating only a microsecond, Vulpes gave the animal its prize and proceeded to serve himself without uttering a word.

Breakfast developed amicably, very pleasant and even entertaining as everyone exchanged idly conversation while Six and Vulpes stayed apart by exchanging silent glances between them.

They weren't really sure about the other's intentions just yet, but the wariness that had been floating between them since they had abandoned The Tops' rooftop had quickly evolved into a timid easiness that spoke of hidden hopes none of them would dare to voice.

So, that had been how Six had ended again washing dishes with _Zorro_ after breakfast, eliciting an odd _déjà vu _sensation as if the previous day had started again and they were fresh out a crazy night, weighting their chances over the chessboard.

However, this time was _Zorro_ the first one to speak.

"I am temporarily needed outside the Strip." – he delivered as a way of explanation. And Six knew she wasn't going to get much more than that. She was grateful, though. She preferred not knowing a thing so her conscience wouldn't demand her to stop him before another _exemplary lesson_ would be delivered to yet another _Nipton_ – "Also, I have to… _explain_ this new situation so they would allow me more freedom of movement."

Six paused briefly her current task to give him a questioning look.

"Is there a new situation?" – she asked, very cautiously.

"I don't know." – he admitted, cautiously as well – "Is there, indeed?"

"What do you mean?"

"Should I wanted to, am I allowed to return here?"

Both kept silent as more dishes were rinsed and dried, mulling on possible answers.

"You are." – she finally answered, her voice a mere whisper – "Are you sure about what are you doing?"

"Are you?" – he returned the question.

"I have an inkling."

"So am I."

Once they finished, Six spoke again as she untied the apron she had put on to deal with the dishwashing.

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow, first hour in the morning."

"When are you returning?"

The sudden concern in her voice caught him low-guarded. He wasn't used to be missed, for he had no-one back on his Flagstaff house waiting for his return. It was a new concept and he wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

"Perhaps in a week." – he answered in earnest – "Maybe a bit more. It depends on whether I will be received as soon as I arrive or rather the next day."

"That's how it works?" – she asked, her voice small.

"Always."

They were walking now outside the kitchen side by side, oddly at ease around each other.

"So…" – she started.

"So…" – he said at the same time, making the two of them momentarily silent, face to face at the door of the Master Bedroom.

"… What are you going to do today?" – she asked out of a sudden.

"Recovering?" – he answered, raising a very white brow – "I'm still feeling quite nauseated after taking those pills that, presumably, are cleaning my body from that disgusting injection the Chairman _maggot_ stabbed me with." – he added with a grimace, earning a small giggle from her.

"Don't worry." – she said reassuringly – "As soon as I'm getting my hands on Benny, he would pay for what he did to you too."

That was _cute_, he had to admit.

"Quite a big statement… coming from such a small girl." – he replied before thinking.

However, despite his tongue slip that, with any other stranger, would have likely earned an unfavorable reaction, she smiled brightly and punched playfully his bicep. Apparently, she liked that type of bantering.

"Shut up!" – she exclaimed, giggling – "I'm little, but mighty."

"Are you now?"

"Of course I am. I will make the entire Mojave bow before me soon, you'll see."

"You and what army, Courier?"

"Me and my awesome sass." – she winked at him – "_Dig_, babe?"

Awful joke, giving the circumstances... but both were smiling now. Tentative, but sure.

"Wanna play a game?" – she asked, her black eyes shining.

"A game?" – he asked, raising a brow – "What kind of game?"

"Come." – she said, extending her hand to him, just in the same fashion he had done with her last night.

His already tingling hand was more certain than his brains the moment their fingers connected. She guided him inside the Master Bedroom and made him sit on the queen-sized bed.

However, as he was about to ask her if they should close the door for more privacy, she sat by his side and started fumbling with her Pip-Boy.

"Go to Data Menu." – she instructed, much to Vulpes' astonishment – "On the Miscellaneous submenu you will find a folder called 'My Games'. Open it and search for an Executable File called _Tzar_."

Vulpes felt really lost in here. So… she wanted to _actually play a game_?

He had heard of these… pre-War virtual games that few people who weren't vaulties had managed to get a hold of. There was even an old Recreative establishment on the Freeside run by a ghoul where many young men, mostly NCR soldiers, went from time to time with their pals to have some innocuous fun while drinking some beers. Vulpes had been there once to asses the place, but he hadn't touched a single game. What was the point of buying plastic round chips you would spend on a machine that you cannot make any benefits out of?

"It's roleplaying and strategy." – the girl went on explaining – "You pick a civilization, a color and make the best of it on a terrain randomly generated. Pick the 'Multiplayer' option. That's it." – she arranged the same settings for her device – "Now wait until both our devices detect their respective signals."

And soon, once she disposed the necessary options on both their Pip-Boys, Vulpes ended with what she called _"European Civilization" _under a blue banner while she opposed him with an _"Arab Civilization"_ under a red banner.

It took two rounds losing against her for the Frumentarius to grasp on the game's mechanics. This was a sort of a virtual simulator on how one amassed and strengthened a civilization before going to war against the neighbor. Very interesting.

"Let's see who's the best out of three victories?" – she asked, a big sufficient smile plastered all over her face.

"Make it five." – he answered, clearly piqued, his brow furrowed while the insulting _'You have lost'_ flashing on the device's screen mocked him – "Two consecutive defeats don't secure immediate victory to the adversary. Experience is the teacher of all things... And I am a very adept student."

"Ha! Prove it."

"Oh, you are going to regret saying that, Courier…"

And they had played again.

And in this third round his, even by little difference, had been the first of many victories.

* * *

Chief Gustavo's attention that morning wasn't as focused as he would have wished.

It happened each time The Lady waltzed all over his territory as if she owned the entire place.

Which, if he had to be honest, wasn't far from the actual truth.

It wasn't that he didn't find her attractive, because she damn well was the hottest chick around… but what Gustavo found particularly unnerving about her was how unpredictable and violent she got the more time she spent on the Tower doing nothing.

And they say that the Devil makes work for idle hands to do.

Perhaps Burke found her restlessness amusing, something to keep the rest of the Tower's residents on edge so they didn't forget who was boss there… but Gustavo was growing wearier and wearier each time he saw her with those laser pistols resting on her twin bandoleer's holsters while she vigorously shook her hips, assessing the watching posts with martial intent, daring any of the present men to give her the wrong look so she could shoot their brains off without even batting a lash.

Half the Tower staff hated her and the other half was terrified of her presence, none of the poor bastards daring exchange a single look with her and they only spoke when she addressed them.

Curse their lucks, but life in the Tower had been far easier when Tenpenny was still alive.

It was true that the ghoul menace coming from Roy Phillips and his people four years ago was no more if the dried human skulls impaled at the outer entrance was any indication… but, at what cost?

Gustavo had known right from the start that when he had signed for Tenpenny Tower Head of Security job, he wasn't working for a good man.

But hey, he hadn't been a saint either prior to his and his men's hiring. Being a merc knew no bounds when payment was good for a particularly gruesome job.

He hadn't suspected a thing when he and his men had rescued a particularly well-dressed fellow whose perfect manners and smell of expensive cologne had spoken volumes about the amount of caps they could get from him if they complied with his demands.

This fellow, shadier than a starless night, had taken a liking to them and had extended a contract of permanency that Gustavo and the guys had promptly signed; the promise of shelter, a regular incoming and a shred of civilization in exchange of watching over an old pre-War refurnished building and shooting off the occasional troublemaker or Wasteland critter a too tempting opportunity to let it go.

But nobody had told them that, as soon as this charming fellow had started expanding business dealing with a rogue chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel and their key agent on the purified water trade, the Tower's ownership would change hands in such a violent fashion. Burke had been a cunning son of a bitch working out an allegiance with the only faction in the entire Wasteland that didn't rely on third parties to thrive.

Not to speak about that deal of his, back on Shady Sands, on the far West.

If ambition itself had a physical incarnation, that would undoubtedly be Burke. Gustavo had never known a man who could be so unyielding and ruthless without losing an inch of style and elegance. The man knew his business well, too well.

His former employer hadn't known what manner of evil he has had on his payroll.

Tenpenny had been a whimsical old man, a pervert and also a slave trader… but that hadn't affected a great deal on Gustavo's working days. Sure, he felt a little bad for the kids, especially for the small brunette that Burke kept as his personal pet, but that hadn't been any of his business. Those kids could count themselves lucky not having to deal with the rashness of the Wasteland and their nearly nonexistent chances of surviving out there all by themselves.

On that, the brunette girl hadn't been as fortunate as the others.

Feeling rather than seeing the instant The Lady re-entered the building, the weight of her predatory green eyes finally lifted from their backs, a wave of relief washed all over the present men, eliciting the return of conversation and easy camaraderie that was usual among them.

However, despite sharing the sentiment with the guys, Gustavo couldn't stop thinking that the monstrous ghoul that always accompanied The Lady hadn't returned from his mysterious trip several weeks ago.

If the zombie still retained some scrap of sanity inside that rotten brain of his, he likely would never come back.

* * *

"Muahahaha!" – the tiny girl's voice chuckled in a joking way of imitating evil intention – "This is it, Fox Man, the definitive battle that will settle the outcome of this war!" – she exclaimed, totally at ease with her alleged villainous role. A role that had him nearly at the brink of snort at her antics. She could play amazingly goofy when she wanted – "Any last words before your civilization meet impending demise?"

Vulpes had managed to remain serious so far, but his blue eyes were sizzling with laugh.

"Giving that we are both four-score draw, I wouldn't fill my mouth with such empty threats, Mailwoman." – he replied, inflecting a fake bored tone on his voice – "Besides, we haven't established the surrender conditions of the loser yet."

"Aha! Negotiation is it, then?"

"Of course. I want _something_ in return if I win this round."

She smiled with such an innocence that informed Vulpes she hadn't grasped the tone he had used with that last phrase.

"Whaddya want if I lose?" – she asked.

Without saying a word, he had taken her by her small chin and had closed the space between them to the point their lips were but a hair's breadth from each other.

"I'll tell you once I have seized my victory." – he whispered, for her to hear only; finding an immense satisfaction as he watched her face and neck turning pink.

"Naaaaaughty." – she gently chided him while quickly extracting herself from his grasp – "Okay, I'll do my best. Wouldn't want to disappoint." – she added while pointing the red beret over her head, a sort of a lucky charm the NCR dog, Boone everybody called him, had trusted her with during the time of their game.

He had found them sitting on the queen-sized bed while Vulpes had just won his third game in a round, and had positioned himself behind the Courier, first gifting the Frumentarius with the umpteenth nasty glance, to immediately stick his eyes on the girl's Pip-Boy screen.

"What are you doing, girlie?" – he had asked.

"We're playing a game!" – she had exclaimed happily like some five-year-old with a full box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes – "It's about strategy and stuff. He has a faction, I have another. We have to conquer the other."

The man had squinted at the chosen colors.

"Is he the red one?" – he had asked with a calculated look, his faded green eyes darkening behind his shades.

That had alerted Vulpes immediately. The man suspected something and he wasn't bothering to cover it, although he was approaching the subject with a certain degree of finesse.

But either the girl had been completely oblivious of his reservations, either she had chosen to utterly ignore them.

"Nope, I am." – she had answered.

Frowning deeply, the man had put both his hands over her shoulders.

"What made you choose that color?"

Her answer had been as sweet as her bright toothy smile.

"Because of your beret." – she had said, pointing with her index towards the aforementioned garment over his shaved head.

The small eyes of the man had softened behind his sunglasses. After that, he had taken off his beret and had put it over the girl's head while muttering with evident warmness just three words: _"Give 'im Hell."_

After that, he had disappeared out of the room's door and hadn't come back.

Which suited Vulpes just fine. The man was clearly unstable and wouldn't take it kindly if the newcomer attempted to seduce the little girl he thought the Courier was, even if it was just kind of playful, giving the shyness of the aforementioned girl. He hadn't come this far for a paranoid ex-soldier start ruining his plans. He wasn't undergoing his best and more profitable spy work to just come before Caesar empty-handed. He had to secure that the girl wouldn't change her mind later when he came back from his excursion to Searchlight.

So, he waited until the next randomly generated terrain produced before them both.

Oddly, it represented two different, almost identical pieces of land divided by an elongated portion of water that separated his faction from hers, like a sort of river.

He would think about _that_ particular virtual battle in the months coming.

* * *

_Red Menace everywhere._

_In the air, on the earth, in the sky… on his left wrist, propaganda disguised as comics and videogames that sought to enlist kids to play war._

_They were the good guys; the Commies were the bad guys. It had been so simple…_

_Red Menace everywhere._

_Liquid black gold, many political interests, electric cars for everyone. Martial Law enforced a year before that…_

_The Commies were everywhere._

_First, Chinese immigrants. Later, the Muslims, the Jews, Latinos, Indians… and many more._

** _You have your orders, soldier._ **

_The girl, the chamber._

_A father, a fanatic, a protector… a maniac. His shadow cast upon the girl._

_Red Menace everywhere._

_Chase making him remember what his orders were. Chasing him, chasing down his dreams. Chase the chaser._

** _You have your orders, soldier._ **

_The training had been brutal; the mission, impossible. Liberation had been but an illusion._

_Red Menace everywhere._

_The Purge… the Purge had been an atrocity._

_And they had approved it._

** _You have your orders, soldier._ **

_A row full of Chinese children weeping, covered in red, their language pleading and spiteful the same. Many had learned it so they could make out what they have been saying._

_Red Menace everywhere._

_Red Stars, Crimson Dragoons. The Red General._

_A row of soldiers preparing their rifles before the weeping children._

** _You have your orders, soldier._ **

_They had pulled the trigger._

_Red Menace everywhere._

_He had pulled the trigger_

** _You have your orders, soldier._ **

_Just like many before him._

_The bombs fell, his comrades fell. The simulation had become a reality… and he was a permanent player doomed to lose. Marching for years on end._

_There were left no heroes, no villains alive. No Commies, no Stars and Stripes. Nobody left to blame for, just ghosts of the past._

_Many lifetimes had passed… but orders were still orders._

_He could write them down again by memory. He could produce countless copies telling the same tale. Paper can only last for so long._

_Chase was no more… but there were other masters available on this bitter land. They might not understand the orders, but they tended to grasp the situation quite fast._

** _You have your orders, soldier._ **

_She had grasped the situation faster than many. She had pitied him once._

** _She has her orders, and you have yours, soldier._ **

_She would pity him no more._

_Anchorage was very far away right now._

* * *

There was nothing to do. ED-E, definitely, had abandoned them.

For hours Raul and she had tried to make the eyebot operative again by unbending and reassembling its damaged frame parts, changing the entire wiring system that had been charred literally in its eighty percent, cleaning its ventilation system, checking the condenser, the delicate memory card, the hybrid CPU, the control system, the manipulators, the flying drivetrain… and nothing.

When Six had gotten her hands on the bot, she had managed to bring it to life with a couple Sensor Modules, some scrap electronics and metal and a lot of imagination by recalibrating servos and gyroscopes and, ultimately, bypassing some of the primary systems to aid the secondary ones to compensate.

How a seventeen-year-old had come to such a complicated yet elegant solution in less than an hour with the constant threat of ex-convicts raiding the town of Primm, where she said she had found the bot in the first place… was beyond Raul and Veronica's comprehension; but Six, either because those two bullets had scrambled her egg in a good way… or rather that she had been always a sort of a mad genius, but she couldn't be described as a regular teenager.

If she hadn't been able to bring ED-E to life for a second time, it was clear that nobody could.

"I simply don't understand it." – Veronica said while huffing in frustration – "We've got the entire wiring new and the CPU hasn't been damaged at all! It should work!"

"Thing is, _Señorita_ Veronica, that the robot doesn't have a proper on-off switch to test if the circuitry is properly ensembled." – Raul replied, tired and frustrated as well – "We have no way of even knowing if it is getting any electric current. And we have already checked it with an amperemeter. This machine surpasses all my robotics and mechanics knowledge."

"Mine too." – confirmed the Scribe sadly – "This is Enclave tech. For years the Brotherhood attempted to regain some of the lost tech RobCo and the Old-World U.S.A. Government left scattered across the country in different military and scientific secret bases. Seems like they had much more refined projects than we could even begin to fathom."

While reading the twelfth issue of _Today's Physician_ a few paces from the frustrated duo, Arcade's fingers bristled over the worn pages, trying really hard to concentrate on his reading rather than overhear a discussion he, theoretically, had nothing to do with.

Theoretically.

However, if briefly tempted to add his "little grain of sand" to the present issue, his weak resolve got even weaker the moment Six came through the door like a tornado with Gerhard Trede's _American Swing_ at full volume.

"I won, yay!" – she was exclaiming happily while dancing around the kitchen table madly – "I wowowowowowon, I wowowowowowon!" – she sing-sang along with the musical piece's first seven notes – "_Dubi-Dubi-Du Dah Dah_…"

Clearly distracted with such fuss, Veronica took her eyes off the offending inoperative robot and directed them first towards the noisy whirlwind of a girl, then to the kitchen's entrance, where a tired-looking _Zorro Salvaje_ was gazing at the official winner of their virtual match with a mixture of not liking one bit having been defeated, but feeling satisfied and even a little amused watching her self-indulgent victory dance.

He may not know it but, since his arrival, Six was way happier than any of them had seen since they knew her. It wasn't just the Pip-Boy returning thing, but rather that the young man, of all people, was indulging her with just going with the flow of her extravagant requests.

And the best part of it was that he was having fun as well.

Veronica felt a surge of gratefulness towards him. Prior to his arrival, she and Boone had been the closest ones by age to Six… and they were a full decade older than her.

Veronica considered herself a joyful person who could be rather childish sometimes… but she wasn't a teenager.

She had tried to be there for Six, to share in her interests, to partake in her jokes and odd idiomatics… but, sometimes, Veronica had felt older than she should. Older by looking at this small girl with damaged memories and even more damaged self-esteem and seeing the only viable road to take if they wanted to change the world. To change the current situation of thousands of people.

This girl was the only one willing enough to push it to the limits to achieve her goals.

Maybe those two bullets had deprived her of any self-preservation sense by trusting a bunch of strangers with her dreams and safety… but her gentle intentions would have won over any good-natured person. If she wanted, she could have many more idealistic people following her, not to House, Caesar or President Kimball.

She only had to ask. To try. To persevere. Veronica wished to believe so and nobody would tell her otherwise. For her broken family in the Brotherhood, for her also broken dreams… for the sake of her own sanity after Father Elijah and Helios One five years ago.

Maybe she, as emotionally unstable as she was, was following the lead of a crazed person the same way she had done in the past… but they had something great in progress. Or wouldn't House have had invited them into his sanctuary if he didn't believe that Six was worth much more than a simple courier?

She had been older than Six when she had decided to accompany Elijah on his crystal-clear banishment disguised as an impossible mission on the Mojave. She had been older than this brave girl and she had done nothing.

She had been meek, docile as a lamb going to the slaughterhouse. She still had Elijah's notes with her to both remind her of the only person she had seen as the grandfather she never had… and her blind adoration to said person as well.

The Brotherhood had been her only world until Elijah's mistakes at Helios One and her constant exposure to his talking back attitude towards the Brotherhood's figures of authority had earned her a permanent, although unofficial, banishment. Just like Elijah.

And she had resigned herself to live as a scavenger, to be at the 188 Trading Post and swallowing the bitter pill of being a laughable "Procurement Specialist", a renegade who couldn't woman up and forsake her Brothers to seek a better horizon… until Six had appeared.

Veronica recalled the encounter as if it had been yesterday. She had been looking forward to buying some Brahmin sirloin, fresh potatoes and carrots to take them to the bunker… until a small girl had approached her with an Enclave eyebot and a gruffy NCR sniper in tow.

Veronica hadn't known how to react, even less with members of apparent opposite factions traveling together as if it was nothing.

"Hiya! That kid over there says your name's Veronica." – the small girl had said with a big smile, her index finger pointing towards Clay or, more commonly known as _"The Forecaster", _a (presumably) "gifted" child who lived on his own at the 188. The stranger had been dressed as a boy, but Veronica had seen enough Brotherhood women bearing apparent little difference between them and their male counterparts to tell – "He says also that you're sad. Wanna have some Nuka with us?" – she had said, pointing this time towards her silent NCR guardian.

Despite her reservations towards an NCR war veteran and the dangerous origins of the floating device, Veronica had accepted. And, since then, her world had regained a bit of sense.

First of all, said girl had almost no qualms about her followers' origins, so making a Brotherhood Scribe travel with an ex NCR sniper, an Enclave eyebot and, later, a Followers' doctor, an ill ex-Legion cyberdog, an ex NCR caravaneer, a ghoul repairman and a Nightkin farmer made totally sense to her.

And second, while being a social person, Veronica had sometimes felt intimidated by some of Six's companions… until she had seen that each one of them was, in a way, as broken as their leader was.

They were good people eager to make a difference.

Six's crusade could provide that to them. So, Veronica had stayed.

And now she didn't conceive living without them, such was the fondness she felt for each one of these nutheads.

And now this awkwardly silent lanky boy was becoming yet another member of their odd family.

Veronica had already accepted him.

"Hey, and what's this?" – Six's delighted squeal awakened Veronica from her reverie – "You two got ED-E functioning?" – she added, pointing to the apparently set up bot.

Raul and her exchanged a very significative look.

"We are… still working on it, Boss." – the ghoul replied diplomatically, unwilling to break the news to her just yet.

The girl's happy expression faltered a bit until she took the device lovingly between her arms and gave it a squeeze.

"Don'cha worry, ED-E." – she cooed, to _Zorro's_ momentarily great shock, eyeing her as if he were expecting her being joking – "We're gonna find a fix for you too." – with that, she left the eyebot back on the workbench with the utmost care in the world – "When we'll manage to save enough money for Rexie's brain, we can ask if Old Lady Gibson have some spare robotic pieces as well. I think I got an idea of what could be wrong with ED-E."

"Money?" – _Zorro's_ soft voice asked behind her – "You mean… that you are going to buy your dog a brain?" – he sounded genuinely interested – "What for?"

Six turned to face him.

"Surely you've noticed that Rex takes long naps and tends to tire way too soon after brief activity." – when he nodded, she continued – "Well, thing is that he has neural degradation, a result of aging. Bio-Med Gel can only preserve a living brain for so long… and, by dog's standards, Rex is pretty much _ancient_." – she explained sadly.

"And you cannot pick the brain of just any other dog for free because…?"

Six squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze until Boone's voice irrupted the scene.

"We are talking about strength, resilience and _loyalty_." – the ex-sniper clarified while going towards the coffee machine – "Three qualities already hard to find in _humans_…" – he punctuated, clearly an underlying warning to who he still perceived as a stranger – "… all the more in an animal, thus why _'just any other dog'_ won't do." – while he poured himself a cup of the dark liquid and put it inside a working microwave, he gave the younger man a severe look – "Or would you rather trust _her life_…" – he pointed out by signaling Six with his eyes – "… with the protection of some _rabid mongrel_ that likely would turn tail at the minimum opportunity?"

Wow. That had been quite _verbose_ for Boone's standards. The man could be articulate AND bold when he wanted.

"Though Rex's inner cybernetic software provides him with a certain 'backup copy' that would secure not losing all the vital memories he has acquired through the passing of time, the brain exchange will not come without consequences." – Arcade intervened, both to inform and to clear the charged air Boone's obvious distrust was achieving by the second, leaving his magazine aside – "Though I am not, by any means, a specialist in bio-mechanic science, I have read these pre-War studies about monkey brains transplanted on robobrains. If said brains turned out defective or developed a tumor, the bot's backup data would retain some of the old monkey's psychological traits… but these would end 'mixing up', if you will, with the memories of a new transplanted brain, thus creating in consequence a new hybrid personality." – he explained – "That is why we need the brain of a fierce but loyal dog that can reconcile both memories and end protecting and loving it's old/new master."

Veronica could tell that this information had intrigued _Zorro_ a great deal, for he remained pensive the rest of the evening, paying extra attention to Rex that had already assigned him the honor to be his human pillow most of the time while the young man sat learning more about the many functions the Pip-Boy had in store, and the dog would simply nap over his lap while giving him lazy licking.

They even ended asleep one beside the other when everybody decided to retire after yet another intensive session of Six's pre-War movie collection. This time, some philosophical trilogy about the fate of the humankind at the hands of the machines' revolution. _"The Matrix",_ she had called them.

Although Veronica was sure that many of them – Arcade and Raul naturally excluded – hadn't gotten half the movies' symbolism, she was grateful to get an insight of how her companions perceived the action as Cass had been constantly saying how hot and badass Trinity was (an opinion Veronica vehemently shared with her); Boone had made a couple of questions about the reason the humankind on the movies had gotten in such a shittier situation than the real world already was; Lily had sighed dreamily when Trinity had kissed Neo the first time… and _Zorro_ had said nothing, but his focused look while he munched on cookies and fries had been enough to inform Veronica that he found the story fascinating.

Six hadn't picked an unintelligent ninth companion, that was for sure.

However, the next morning, Veronica didn't know what to make of him again as Six had announced that he was leaving for a week.

None of them had left Six's side since they had incorporated into the group before. It had been a sort of a silent pact between them, and having the newest addition breaking it so easily had given the young Scribe a pang of something akin to betrayal.

Nonetheless, the instant he had asked Six if the dog's new brain needed some kind of special treatment before it's transplanting, Veronica had dared to hope.

And, when a puzzled Six had pointed him to the prepared insulation portable capsule with Bio-Med Gel the old doctor in Jacobstown had provided them with, Veronica knew the girl hadn't made a mistake with him when he had taken the capsule, saying that he would return with a worthy dog's brain.

So, the instant she had come down the Strip's streets with Lily, Raul (of all people _Zorro_ could be in their good graces, it was the grumpy ghoul who seemed to be the most comfortable around him), Rex and Six to say him goodbye, she had extended her hand to him.

"See ya soon, _Jimmy_." – she had said with a smile.

Momentarily surprised with her amicable display, he had taken her hand to give it a firm shake.

"Goodbye, _Becky_." – had been his cheeky answer, still maintaining the Poker-Face façade he was, apparently, so comfortable with.

The feeling of treason had immediately vanished from Veronica's trusting, although naïve heart.

* * *

The bastard was heading East.

Perched on the little space that provided one of the Presidential Suite's balconies, Boone was observing through the lens of his scooped hunting rifle how the albino brat was taking the route from the North gate of the Strip towards the East Gate of the Freeside.

And East meant only one thing.

"You really should stop being so paranoid." – he heard Arcade's voice behind him – "Six trusts him. That should count for something."

Boone kept silent, his right eye still on the scope.

Behind him, Arcade sighed.

"Look, I get it." – he said – "She disappeared that night and you find that this boy had been with her all the time. You felt like he sorts of kidnapped her, and you are in your right to be angry with him; even with Veronica, who's the one who left her alone in the first place on the seediest casino in all New Vegas. And I should know because I was pissed off as well." – as he saw no movement coming from the sniper, he sighed again – "But bear in mind that getting suspicious from all the young men who don't wear the Two-Headed Bear's uniform is like suspecting a good half of the population on the Mojave. And it is going to make you miserable, just like you were back in Novac." – now _that_ had earned a slight tension building on the sniper's shoulders – "It's true that I don't know who he is, and maybe you will end being right… but you should take into consideration that he's a human being and he suffers, just like any of us. Six's inclination to recruit the most broken, sad, traumatized idiots around should give you an approximated idea, and that boy is no exception." – after that, Boone heard the balcony door being pulled and closed.

Boone's grip on his rifle faltered a bit and tightened again when the sound of the balcony's door being open and closed again carried with it a distinct smell of whiskey.

"Look, I didn't want to say anything before because I know what a fucking paranoid loony you are, but…" – Cassidy's voice got briefly cut as she took a swing of her already second whiskey bottle in the morning – "Just saying that you might, and I say MIGHT, not be so wrong after all."

He had lost him. His scope would only reach as much distance.

"What do you mean?" – he asked, turning around to face the woman, who was calmly leaning against the opposite wall.

"Well, you see… I've fucked a lot of your soldier type." – she smiled, already slightly inebriated – "I still do, from time to time."

"Your point being?"

"My point is… that I have grown to recognize your body shape quite well… and Tribal Boy just happens to share that _particular_ trait with you."

Silence.

"You're saying that he's NCR?" – in Boone's voice incredulity could be heard.

Cassidy snorted.

"Fuck, no." – she said, clicking her tongue – "What I'm saying is… that I recognize the body of a soldier. Which _kind_ of soldier is an entirely different question."

Boone's grip on his rifle tightened until his knuckles became white.

"You think he could be Legion?" – he asked, briefly tempted to chase the little chalky rat down. He still had time.

Cass shrugged.

"Dunno." – she admitted – "I've never seen a goddamned legionary washing dishes before, but everything's possible."

"Why telling me then?"

Suddenly, Cass' attitude switched and she was serious now.

"Because I don't want some motherfucking pretty soldier boy breaking her heart by using her as a means to get a promotion, being General Oliver or fucking Cesar the one giving it, I care a molerat's ass about, really." – she spat – "Don't you see that she's famous now? Maybe House now holds the upper hand when it comes to her services as a courier… but, as soon as she finishes her contract by killing the fucker that stole the Chip from her and returning it to Machine Man up there… she might not be able to step out of the Mojave's affairs so easily, for many people wants her by their side. And Oliver and Cesar cannot be the only ones."

That gave Boone some pause, seeing the logic behind the redhead's words. She too cared about the girlie a great deal, after all.

Could this be true? That their current stay at the Lucky 38 had awakened a web of political interests within the two primary factions occupying the Mojave? So soon?

Being this true, he already knew what had to be done.

"Let's keep this between us." – he decided – "When I can't keep an eye on her, you will be covering my position. The point of it not leaving her alone until we know what game the albino's playing. He has the others on his pockets already, so I can only trust you."

Cassidy smiled lazily. Coming from Party Pooper, this had to be hard to come by.

"Deal." – she agreed, extending her hand and quickly regretting it as Boone got quite the bone-crushing grip on his hand.

"I hope that you are aware of what implies making a pact with an NCR sniper." – he said very seriously.

But Cass, despite any situation, couldn't remain as serious as many probably wished she would.

"The _'working in pairs and relying on the companion' _shit? Yeah." – she watched Boone's stony face with anticipation as she dropped the bomb – "At least that's what one of you boys told me while attempting to give me some lip service. Most boring fuck ever."

The only indication that she had bothered him was one of Boone's jaw muscles twitching twice. For Cass, that was enough.

* * *

There was a new bounce in his step.

It was truly rare for him to feel such giddiness as he identified such a state as childish, unfitting for Caesar's greatest Frumentarius… but Vulpes also knew that indulging the ego a bit from time to time was a means to raise one's morality, thus perfectly healthy.

While he hadn't managed – yet – to make the Courier fully pliable to his wishes, he hadn't left her group's company empty-handed.

And he meant it quite literally: besides the RadAway intravenous bags, the Buffout and Rad-X he had managed to sustain from their stock, the Courier herself had insisted that he took something she had called a "Riot Gear", a rare piece of pre-War armor she didn't say how she had obtained it.

"It's about your size." – she had explained when he had asked why giving him such a valuable item – "It will cover your skin entirely so you won't get burnings out there, and Arcade, who's the only other that could fit in it, finds it a bit too claustrophobic for his liking."

He hadn't expected her knowing what his skin condition entailed, but he had appreciated the gesture. This way he would remain relatively clean until he arrived at Searchlight. No more mud smearing over the skin.

It was true that the armor got a time-adjusting process as he found it claustrophobic as well, but this was way better than wearing a tanned coyote headdress, so he wasn't complaining.

In fact, he wasn't complaining at all: this had been, with a difference, the most profitable, interesting, and exciting undercover work he had done in a long time.

And he was very looking forward to continuing it should Caesar would give him his approval.

Vulpes was confident that his Lord would see this as a great opportunity to gather more intel while working on attracting the Courier's interest to aid the Legion. He had proof enough that the girl wanted him by her side.

And also most of her companions if the cookies the supermutant had given to him, and the cordial handshake he had gotten both from the ghoul and _'Becky'_ counted for something.

Not to tell the unbelievable load of food and water supplies everyone except the NCR dog had insisted he took with him.

So, he had ended not only with new protective gear and a brand-new Pip-Boy, but with a duffle bag full of supplies, medicines and, most importantly, dynamite.

Dynamite he intended using soon if everything went according to his plan.

He spent two nights camping outdoors and an extra one inside Wolfhorn Ranch, one of the Legion safehouses, as he deemed the main roads way too crowded with NCR patrols for his liking. Not that he had something to fear from them, but his gear was so unique that it would raise suspicion if he allowed it been seen too frequently at Searchlight surrounds.

For he wanted his Fox/_Zorro_ persona remaining totally unrelated with Vulpes Inculta. And many people on the Strip had already seen him wearing the gear without the covered helmet, so he wasn't taking any chances.

He had changed inside the safehouse and had left the gear along with the portable brain capsule with a _"Property of Vulpes Inculta"_ note so any of his Frumentarii comrades wouldn't get the wrong ideas about using either of the items, most prominently, the armor. It was _his_, the Courier had gifted it to _him_ and nobody else had the right to wear it.

He had _earned_ it. Just like the Pip-Boy.

So, with mud smeared again on his exposed skin as he donned again his officer explorer armor and the regrettably necessary Vexillarius coyote headress, he had walked from Wolfhorn Ranch to the near Legion Raid Camp where, for months, his men had been stocking piles and piles of ammo and food supplies they had been intercepting from NCR shipments meant for Camp Searchlight to weaken their defenses.

And the moment, after months of careful preparation, of teaching them an exemplary lesson had come: his men had informed Caesar about a blatant breach on Searchlight's defenses as they were sure they were running low on food and ammo as well when many of the soldiers had ventured outside the encampment to hunt down some geckos for meat, thus wasting resources and making their position more vulnerable than ever.

And Caesar had given the order to proceed.

So here he was: his arrival at the Raid Camp had gotten all of his men on their positions, ready for his to command.

"_Ave_, true to Caesar." – he had greeted the first one to step up to receive him – "Tell me where is Gabban, for I wish to speak with him before any vital orders are given, Maximus."

The alluded, a young man not much older than Vulpes himself, had given him a brisk salutation.

"_Ave_, my Lord Vulpes. You will find Gabban at the _tabernaculum repono_, ready to assume his position as your Second-In-Command."

Vulpes was briefly tempted to correct the other man's Latin pronunciation, but he knew how hard Maximus was trying to learn their language, so he let it pass for this time.

"Not this time, Maximus, for I will appoint another as my Second-In-Command for this mission." – upon seeing Maximus' soft brown eyes lighting with hope, Vulpes had already made his decision. The young man was strong and capable and many of the other young Frumentarii respected him. It would be unfair not to give him an opportunity to prove his worth – "Upon my return, gather three of the most unassuming men and don a caravan disguise. After that, wait for my orders."

He could tell that Maximus was having a hard time attempting to disguise his excitation.

"Yes, my Lord!" – he exclaimed – "Thank you, my Lord!"

With that, Vulpes had bid him _Vale_ and had approached the tent where they kept stored all the stolen NCR supplies.

"_Ave_, Vulpes Inculta." – Gabban saluted him unceremoniously once he got inside.

"_Ave_, _fratris meus_." – Vulpes replied, earning an immediate shocked look from the younger man – "Everything in order during my absence, I hope?"

"Don't do that!" – the alluded replied, lowering his voice considerably – "You want to get us both killed?!"

"Ah, exaggerated as always, I see." – Vulpes said, keeping a detached façade while his right hand went to cup Gabban's face – "_She_ was right when _she_ said your cautious nature would give you a _heart attack_ out of excessive worrying as you keep growing older. And what's this?" – he added, taking one of his interlocutor's hands to show it to him as well – "Bitten nails. How many times I have to remind you that such an evident proof of nervousness, _ergo **weakness**_, will gain you no favors within the Legion?"

"Stop that!" – the other exclaimed, taking his wrist out of Vulpes' grasp – "You know how some can _misinterpret_ that behavior of yours!" – he sighed, taking his eyes to the ground as if it was the most interesting thing in the world at the moment – "It's not like it hasn't happened before…"

But Vulpes had taken a step towards him, his hands holding gently both sides of Gabban's face as he planted a kiss between his brows.

_"Cualquiera con ojos lo bastante observadores entendería la naturaleza de mi afecto por ti."_ – he whispered – _"Después de todo, ¿acaso no está un hombre en su derecho a demostrar aprecio hacia su propio hermano?" **(2)**_

Gabban's galvanic blue eyes saddened, but other than that, he allowed the contact meekly. He too missed when both were children and no-one would question how _right_ and _healthy_ was hugging each other. But life hadn't been fair to any of them.

"I bring presents, both for you and… for _her_." – Vulpes whispered conspirationally while he presented his duffle bag to the younger man.

"_She_ would kill us both should _she_ caught us talking about _her_ this way…" – Gabban muttered, his hand searching inside the bag – "Dynamite?" – he asked, raising a thick brow as he showed Vulpes the result of his rummaging.

Vulpes laughed quietly, his shivering shoulders the only sign of his amusement.

"Try again."

A delighted gasp later produced an untouched box of Sugar Bombs.

"Oh, man!" – Gabban whispered excitedly, his eyes shining the likes of a five-year-old on his birthday party – "These are so good!"

Vulpes smiled brightly, watching the other becoming, if briefly, the boy he still was.

"There is another one for _her_." – he confirmed – "And now… I'm afraid the next gift that awaits you is not going to be so… pleasant as I would have wished, but it is a necessary evil." – he explained as he produced an intravenous RadAway bag – "Give me your left arm and pay attention, for you will be required to do the same with _her_."

Gabban looked at the offending bag with horror in his eyes.

"You must be kidding!" – he hissed – "That's forbidden and you know it!"

"I don't care."

"Maybe you don't, but I do!"

"If I tell you that I have been subjected to the same procedure, you will feel better?"

"What?! Are you fucking crazy?!"

"Watch that mouth or I will have it cleaned with soap."

"You are NOT treating me like a child! I don't care if you're older!"

"Then stop behaving _and_ sounding like a child."

"You cannot possibly mean to inject that… _thing_ to me and _her_!"

"Oh, but I do."

"Based on what?!"

"Based on this." – at that, the odd bulky gauntlet that Gabban had observed on him came to life emitting a soft amber glow as Vulpes navigated through the menus – "Do you know what is this?" – he asked, showing a particular menu to the younger man.

Gabban's jaw had gotten suddenly all loose.

"That's…" – he said, astonished – "That's what those people from the Vaults…"

"Not the device, you _dummy_." – Vulpes groaned impatiently – "The _meter_ I am showing you."

Gabban blinked twice before answering. Oh, he could be so _infuriatingly slow_ sometimes…

"It reads _'2 Rads'_." – he answered lamely.

"And what do you think that means?" – Vulpes pressed.

"That you only have a minimum radiation quantity?"

"Very good." – the albino confirmed, fumbling a bit with the menus to show the same menu to Gabban again – "What does it says now?"

"Uh… it reads _'411 Rads'_… Wait." – his eyes widened as he came to a conclusion – "You're saying _that's_ my radiation level?!"

Vulpes nodded.

"You're kidding, right? I simply cannot be halfway going ghoul!"

Funny how the girl had put it with _those exact same words_ after the first scanning.

"Now, imagine the radiation levels _she_ should be showing after all this time on Techatticup Mine." – he deadpanned.

Gabban had run out of words at this point. Could this be right? That he and _she_ were… _dying_?

Not for nothing, radiation poisoning was called _"The Phantom Death"_ among the legionaries. You couldn't see it, you couldn't hear it, you couldn't even smell it. It basically built up in your system. You would never feel it until it was too late.

"Now, give me your left arm."

The younger man didn't argue further, but soon he found himself apprehensive towards looking how a needle perforated his forearm artery.

"Pay attention." – Vulpes' voice hissed, commanding – "If you fail to learn how to do this, you will be failing _her_."

Gulping a great deal of saliva, Gabban nodded and endured the creeps the entire procedure gave him. It was just a needle, it was just a needle…

"Already done." – Vulpes said as he patted Gabban's now free of needles forearm – "You would need to hydrate yourself more than you are used to, so keep in hand several bottles of clean water."

Gabban assented absently until he was trusted with more medication: Rad-X to endure possible radiation poisoning while on Techatticup Mine and… Buffout.

"Oh, good…" – he sighed, relief evident on his voice – "_She_ was running low on these."

"I know." – Vulpes mumbled quietly, taking the dynamite with him and entrusting Gabban with the duffle bag – "You will be parting on this very instant."

"Wait, what about Camp Searchlight?" – the younger man protested.

"What about it?"

"Are you not here for the sole purpose of launching an undercover attack?"

"That, I am. Yes."

"And I am not supervising it?"

"Would you seriously expect _me_ sending _you_ to an NCR nest full of radioactive containers we pretend to blow off so the filth would spread to the whole encampment?"

"But that was your original plan!"

"Yes, and I am not including you in it. Maximus will be covering your position."

"Why?"

"I think the answer is quite obvious."

Biting his tongue so he wouldn't incur in disrespect to who still was his superior officer, Gabban took the duffle bag while huffing in utter displeasure.

"Once you're done in Techatticup Mine, I want you to take the road to New Vegas and wait for me at The Atomic Wrangler casino on the Freeside." – Vulpes instructed – "There should be money enough to buy you a few days' residence on the Wolfhorn Ranch, Southeast of here." – he continued – "During your stay on the Freeside, keep an ear on the ground about the Courier's group whereabouts. Gamble and blend on until I contact you."

"Is that everything?" – was Gabban's rather petulant answer.

From just any other, Vulpes would have knocked the teeth out of their mouths before that whole sentence came out.

The bastard knew very well that him and _her_ were his Achilles' Heel.

"Tell _her_ that I love _her_." – was his immediate answer, earning a soft glance from the other.

"_She_ would kill me if I _dared_ to say _that_ to _her_." – he chuckled.

"Then say that I _ordered_ you to say it." – replied Vulpes, taking Gabban by the nape, embracing him – _"Fiel a La Jauría, hermano."_ **_(3)_** – he whispered on his ear, clapping his back fondly.

The younger man returned the gesture.

_"Fiel a La Jauría."_ – he confirmed before stepping out the embrace and leaving the storage tent.

Inhaling and exhaling twice to keep his nerves on check and ignoring the sudden need he experienced of viciously scratching both his wrists (thank the Pip-Boy gauntlet he wouldn't be achieving such a feat on his left one at least), Vulpes Inculta steeled himself for the mission ahead, dynamite cartridges already in hand for his men to see. It had been a happy coincidence that he had found them so he wouldn't have to sacrifice any of his men if they abandoned the encampment quickly enough.

Maximus and the other three men were already dressed as caravaneer and caravan guards respectively. The trick would be to convince the NCR soldiers that their caravan had been attacked, thus why they lacked the due Brahmin carrying the load.

"Good." – he confirmed, pleased that his men looked, indeed, like Profligate commoners – "Let us proceed."

* * *

Admittedly, Sloan had seen better days.

Chomps Lewis could attest it. He had been one of the first moving to the place when the NCR had gotten hold of the limestone quarry and had promised the earth to the workers in their fine speech shit… but, as usual, at the minimum trouble, they had been unable to provide.

It was nearly the sixth month since those ex-convicts bastards had stolen all the dynamite that had triggered the Deathclaw plague on the junction. And still there was no sign of NCR troops coming to their aid.

True that the kid with the Pip-Boy had assembled properly the main generator so they could enjoy electricity and had promised to speak on their behalf to the authorities at the Mojave Outpost, Southwest of there… but that had been like eons ago…

Lewis was worried about his daughter. Between the Deathclaw infestation and her stupid decision joining the Great Khans… Lewis hadn't been able to speak with her in nearly a year.

She had promised to write but, you know, young people… they loved keeping their old fellows in suspense. Just like the selfish, self-centered little pricks they were…

He was enjoying his morning coffee sat at the small barricade they had managed to put together in the middle of the road, sledgehammer on his back should one of the monsters decided to take a hike down the line… when a tall silhouette from the South cut a long shadow against the already scorching sun.

_Yet the umpteenth lost traveler going New Vegas taking the wrong route… - _Lewis thought as he sighed heavily, preparing the usual warning he gave all the time.

"Hold up!" – he exclaimed, raising his right hand – "There are Deathclaws all over the damn place North of here. I'd turn back if I were..."

However, as soon as the words left his lips, he took a step back when he saw not only that the newcomer was minimum a head taller than him, broader than a goddamned bodybuilder and armed to the teeth… but that he was also a ghoul.

A sane ghoul, thank God for small mercies, if his strong gait full of intent was any sign of a still human mind.

However, as he observed the necrotic passing by his side as if there wasn't a barricade and a human in the way, Lewis got out his trance and hollered:

"Wait! If you want to get to New Vegas, you're better off heading East from Primm and then looping North! It's a heck of a lot safer!" – however, as the stranger kept walking, Lewis attempted it one last time – "If you insist on going North, don't be expecting a rescue when you get into trouble!"

That got him the ghoul stopping briefly, turning the skinned head back to give him the coldest look he had ever seen in another man, human or not.

"Do I look like I care?" – the ghoul rasped before resuming his brisk pace. Chomps Lewis didn't saw him again.

But what he saw a couple days after the incident was the first human face arriving from the North passage, pale and terrified describing the carnage that was adorning the road ahead.

Lewis had gathered a few armed men so they could assess the situation by themselves. They didn't see a single Deathclaw shadow until they had come far enough to stand at the entrance of the Quarry Junction.

Bright crimson glowed everywhere as several chunks of unidentified meat signaled the path ahead.

Not willing to risk life and limb, Lewis had thrown one of his emergency flares, ready to start running at the minimum sound… and that had illuminated the rocky space just enough to see what had become of the previous occupants.

It had been so gruesome that one of the men had started throwing up.

For, lying on a pile of undistinguishable rotting organic tissue there was a conglomerate of bones, peeled off limbs, broken giant eggshells, bowels, plucked fangs, horns, and claws. A macabre testimony of what had happened there.

Sure thing Lewis was happy to help cleaning the bloodied mess so they could restart the work… but he couldn't stop the treacherous thought about having been the only one who had seen the face of the meanest, toughest, roughest bastard in the entire Wasteland.

Even feral ghouls, by his standards, were way saner than the redhead motherfucker that had managed to wipe an entire Deathclaw nest in just one round.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "She had been like this since the early morning. She's very happy with her gadget back. Thanks for helping her, lad."  
(2) - "Anyone with sharp enough eyes would understand the nature of my affection for you. After all, isn't a man in his right to show appreciation towards his own brother?"  
(3) - "Loyal to The Pack, brother."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: I'm sorry I didn't show my appreciation to the last Kudos last time I posted! I was so emotionally drained that my brain just skipped good manners and went whining about First World problems and blahblahblah.  
What I wanted to say is: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT. I hope this story, even if it is long as fuck, would make some of you think... or just entertain your leisure spaces in-between work, school, and life in general.  
So... this chapter had been a mixture between character development, emotional stuff and (finally), getting out that damned casino for once! Even if it is fun writing the characters interact, I was getting sick of everyone making themselves at home on the Lucky 38, so now, on the next chapter, we will get a glimpse of The Fort and Caesar himself! Some action, finally!  
Hope you liked this new chapter, see ya soon!
> 
> EASTER EGG: if you want to know where I am getting at with Gabban, read this short fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150169  
Erm... do I need to say that reading it is SPOILERS for all of ya? XD


	8. We don't need another hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains a non-descriptive reference to rape, self-harming behavior, psychological abuse and violence. If you're sensitive to these topics, either don't read or proceed with caution.

* * *

As soon as she had watched his tall, darkened silhouette disappear behind the Strip North Gate, Six had already accepted that she wouldn't see him again unless being draped in red colors, the horns of the Bull sharpened and menacing at the other side of The Dam.

She would be lucky if she, in time, would be receiving an invitation to Fortification Hill as House desired… and she would count herself as _extremely fortunate_ if many of her friends, Boone being the first, didn't end abandoning her after this _Zorro fiasco_.

_And what did you expect?_ – she mentally chastised herself – _That he would abandon his post just to chase after you in your folly pursuing a chip and a snake? I am afraid that you are not so special._ – somehow, in her mind, her most criticizing side sounded like Burke. His deep, pleasant voice spinning venom that reverberated as sweet as any slow Blues – _Be realistic, my dear: your so-called 'friends' only follow you out of either pity or boredom. There is nothing that can be found in your person that holds any worth beyond your capability of diplomacy while looking harmless enough that nobody would suspect how twisted you are on the inside._

His voice would haunt her even when he wasn't present. Disguised as wise, adult guidance, his words would echo inside her head, drowning her thoughts, hushing her personality away.

**_"Have you ever heard the proverb 'Children should be seen and not heard', Birdie, dear?"_** – he had told her once when she had expressed her discomfort around Tenpenny – **_"As long as you will be residing on Tenpenny Tower under Alistair Tenpenny's rule, you will be addressing him as 'Sir' and put a smile on that face of yours while remaining conveniently quiet until he finishes what he has to say to you; the manner of his addressing to your person shall remain indistinct of intention. You will listen and then, report to me."_**

And then… when the panther-eyed woman had intercepted her on the lower corridors, she had been forced on a chair on the _Café Beau Monde_ while she had been accosted by questions that she had found all the difficult to answer.

_"I am curious."_ – the green-eyed demon with the face of an angel, Laura, had said while drinking delicately a cup of tea, her shapely long legs elegantly crossed while she had studied the small girl in front of her – _"He seems very fond of you, although the reason behind it escapes me entirely."_ – with yet another small sip to her cup, she had added – _"Are you his daughter?"_

_"No, Miss."_ – she had answered automatically. Short and pleasant, just like Burke had instructed her.

_"He calls you 'Birdie'."_ – Laura had insisted, her feline eyes squinting with cold intent – _"Are you his lover?"_

_"No, Miss."_ – had been, once again, her answer.

That seemly had appeased her.

_"Is the blonde bimbo from Room 102 his lover?"_ – her questions had been the questions of a jealous, very possessive woman who had already settled her interest on a prey.

Didn't she know that she had Burke's interest already? That sounded like they weren't lovers yet. Perhaps, if she meddled, they would end together. That would make Burke happy, right?

_"No, Miss. Susan Lancaster is the residential escort, but Mr. Burke, to my knowledge, has never used her services."_ – she had answered, her cup of tea still untouched before her, tense posture, hands twisting under the table, nails puncturing on her flesh as Burke had forbidden her to bit on them - _"He's not married or anything like that, if that's your next question."_

Laura had leaned on the cafeteria's table, her sharp sight scrutinizing.

_"Aren't you a perceptive little pigeon?"_ – she had asked, her voice sweet but her body language predatory – _"Very well."_ – relaxing against the backrest of her chair, she had crossed fingers to put them under her chin, pensive. The same gestures, the same deceptive body language Burke used for business. Her instincts had screamed red lights, but she had been naïve… too naïve… – _"Now that both have shown our respective cards, let me ask you one last question: what are your thoughts on the old man with the silly British accent? And be completely honest with me, because I wouldn't buy it if you start complimenting his rule or his perverted inclinations, am I right?"_

That had stung. So deeply that she had bled truths, truths she had been unable to trust with a single soul.

Laura had listened to her patiently, nodding in the right places, offering a handkerchief for her tears and forcing the warm cup of tea between her trembling hands. She had felt so relieved after telling her everything…

_"Tell me, pigeon: what do you think that would happen if the old pervert would be removed from the equation?"_

She should have known better.

_"I… don't know. Chief Gustavo would take the reins, probably. He has the men on his side after all."_

But she had dared to hope…

_"Do you think the Tower residents would like to have Gustavo as their new landlord?"_

To hope that there was still a shred of decency and goodwill on that Hell.

_"I… don't know. I don't think so. At least not the richest ones. Chief Gustavo is intelligent, strong and knows how to lead… but he's rude by their standards and he knows next to nothing about Tenpenny's business with Eulogy Jones and the Talon Company…"_

_"And who do you think that would make a suitable successor should Tenpenny had… let's say, a 'tragic accident'?"_ – her smile had been cold, her words calculated to the millimeter – _"Say, little pigeon: will you help me win over Burke's heart? I would be very grateful."_

She had been led to believe that, this way, she would be doing both the Humankind a favor by removing such a putrescent son of a bitch from the map and earning both Burke and Laura's favor by "helping her" crowning him as the new owner of the Tower.

But there is a side of the coin she hadn't considered the instant she has had the old man cornered, alone in his balcony, drinking scotch with one of his unwilling girls sat at his feet like some beast.

_"What's this?"_ – the disgraceful human being of an old man had asked, eyeing both her and Laura's silenced pistols with distrust – _"What do you think you two are doing?"_

Laura had grabbed the other girl by the arm, taking her aside as _'Birdie'_ had positioned with her pistol pointing at Tenpenny's brow, her right combat boot over the couch between the man's legs to impede escape.

_"Alistair Tenpenny."_ – she had recited, a sick, vicious feel of invincibility rushing through her veins – _"For the power the Constitution and the Government of the United States of America have bestowed upon me, I declare you guilty of charges of slavery-conducting business felony, kidnapping felony, rape felony and crimes against humanity."_ – when the old man had attempted to speak up, she had silenced him with a kick on his groin – _"Therefore, I sentence you to death under Martial Law declared on the 16th of August, the year 2076, by the United States Army under the lead of General Constantine Chase."_

_"You cannot do this!"_ – the bastard had hollered, his wrinkled face red and twisted in an ugly sneer – _"This is not the United States anymore, you fool! This is…!"_

_"Long live America."_ – she had deadpanned before pulling the trigger, not once or twice, but several times until the full cartridge had emptied.

However, the very moment a slow clapping had reached her ears, she had learned the truth.

Burke had stepped out the shady corner he had been hiding in and had approached Laura who, after giving him a knowing grin, had shoved the other girl she had been restraining aside like a dummy and had gripped him by the tie of his unpolluted suit to crush her lips with his.

Then, explanations had taken place almost immediately.

Burke had praised her accomplishment, telling her that she had been a good girl and how proud he was.

**_"However, regrettable as it is, now we would have to present a culprit for this homicide to Chief Gustavo."_** – he had said placidly while her head had been spinning so fast, she thought she would faint – **_"But don't you worry, Birdie dearest, for we have caught the killer and her accomplice just in time so they couldn't hurt anyone else." _**– he had added, taking the silenced pistol from her hands and throwing it at the other girl's feet.

Knowing very well to what Hell she would be subjected before the end, the aforementioned girl, terrified, had started running towards the balcony exit, howling in terror as she had found the corpses of the security guard and the other girl that Tenpenny still retained from the four he had kept for his leisure.

Six recalled how a sudden weight had been put between her hands as the other girl had pushed the elevator button on the inner lobby desperately after having found the emergency staircase door blocked.

**_"Now, my dear girl…"_** – he had whispered on her ear amidst the violent beating of her heart – **_"… It would be a perfect time to show me how loyal to the cause you are… unless you want to take her place, that is. The choice is yours." _**– as the numbers on the upper side of the lift's doors had kept raising, he had added, planting a red right hand over her shoulder – **_"Finish your mission, soldier."_**

V.A.T.S., less than thirty feet distance and the easy manipulation of a 10mm had done the rest.

The elevator had brought Gustavo and three of his men who, having heard the ruckus, had decided to come up to assess the security of the place as their comrade wouldn't answer the walkie talkie that each one of them possessed.

Another three men had crushed down the emergency staircase door almost immediately.

From that point, everything had been theatrics, smoke and shadows while Burke had given the men his version of the events.

Unconvinced, as he had been knowing Burke for many years, Chief Gustavo had, predictably, attempted to seize the control of the Tower through half-hearted "persuasive" means… but this had been a public display and almost all of the Tower residents saw Burke as a hero for bringing down both the killer and the accomplice with the help of his team, and they felt safer with Burke in command… not to speak about Laura's vicious cohorts: the redhead monster of a ghoul, a crazed bitch the infamous Lone Wanderer had bought from Eulogy Jones back on Paradise Falls… and an old raider merc who kept giving the security men the eye should any of them wanted to start a firefight.

Gustavo had known that giving up was the most sensible option available. No one needed an inner war with ex-mercs versus Burke and his rabid woman's gang destroying the Tower and hurting customers in the process. Not when, since his rise to power, had made Burke expand Tenpenny's old businesses until caps had started pouring in for everyone.

Then, he had started looking to the West.

"Everything okay, Boss?" – was Raul's raspy voice the one that brought her out her pit of misery, digging through memories and voices… so many voices.

Six blinked twice, the threat of tears burning the rim of her eyes.

_Zorro_ was gone. Just like the rest would in due time when they will learn the truth.

She saw concern on Vero's eyes as Rex whimpered, seeking to appease her inner suffering with his canine love.

But none of them had a moment of respite when a guy dressed in a tailored unpolluted suit, those suits Burke favored so much, came up while combing his dark, gummed hair.

"Ring-a-ding, baby!" – he exclaimed way too cheerfully for Six's tastes – "Good to see you!"

"A _Chairman_." – she observed rather distastefully. She was sad and angry with herself and this guy just happened to anger her more with his Benny-like slang and odious city boy style – "What is it _you_ guys do want _this time_?"

"Baby, ease off the gas!" – the guy exclaimed, not faltering a second despite her glacial disposition – "I come with a peace offering from all of us cats' compliments! You see, doll, at the rate you're becoming more and more the celebrity on this side of New Vegas."

"And?" – she hissed, becoming more and more the pissed off _celebrity_ by the minute.

"And Swank and the rest of us think that would be swell if you'll pop your pretty head in our place." – he answered, flashing a charming smile that would have disarmed a less embittered version of herself – "We would like to compensate Benny's rotten move to you and your boyfriend…"

"HE'S NOT MY FUCKING BOYFRIEND, DAMN IT!" – she barked, earning that her shoulders got gently restrained with both Raul and Veronica's hands as her outburst had nearly made her to pounce at the guy – "WHY DOES EVERYONE SEES A BOY AND A GIRL AND IMMEDIATELY ASSUMES THAT THEY ARE AN ITEM?! FUCK YOU!"

"Whoa, babe!" – the alluded took a step back, upholding his hands in peace sign while a chorus of nosey folks stared at the odd scene – "Smooth moves. Smooth…" – he said, drawing words out as if he were dealing with a particularly angry baby Deathclaw – "Anyhow, just drop by with your friends and the Chairmen will make worth your while. No tricks, no funny business, okay?" – he added, trying to convey reassurance on his voice while he gave her a curtsy as he bid her goodbye – "We will be looking forward to you joining us on The Tops! See ya!"

With that, the infuriating exchange was over and Six found herself on Veronica's arms while the Scribe patted softly her back.

"Easy, easy…" – she was chanting to her, mantra-style – "It's over now, it's over…"

Six grabbed at the young woman's tank top and remained that way her good five minutes until Vero's voice acted as a sedative and she relaxed her stiff posture.

After that, Raul, Lily, Rex, Vero and she got inside the Lucky 38 again.

Once they were on the Presidential Suit floor again, the girl immediately sought Boone.

"You okay, girlie?" – the man had asked once he had seen how tousled her hair and perturbed her countenance were.

"Come with me? Please?" – she asked, doe-eyed and suddenly smaller than that was usual in her – "I need to finish some business at The Tops and I would like to have you by my side."

"Sure."

And that was how she had grabbed all the due papers, the virus pendrive, and had departed without further words with Boone and Rex, the latter seemingly unwilling to leave her side; leaving a consternated Scribe and a worried ghoul behind.

**"Awwwww, the poor little girl is sad now that her playmate has left**." – said Lily, startling the two of them – **"She shouldn't worry, though. Jimmy will come back."**

Neither Raul or Veronica said a word, but both prayed that the giant granny would end being right.

* * *

To describe Vulpes' current mood as "unsettled" would be an understatement.

He was fretful, experiencing an anxiety he had not experienced since Nipton as his white-knuckled hands were supporting the binoculars that currently served him to get a good view of what was happening down there.

Searchlight. A guard leaving post, the fire station, trucks loaded with canisters full of nuclear waste… A plan cooked slow burn from months ago.

He feared for his men.

He would never say out loud such a thing, of course; or even show external signs of what in the Legion should be interpreted as weakness. His careful, insanely perfectionist nature would never betray those emotions Callidus Anguis had effectively suppressed during his training under his wing. Normally, the average recruit not older than sixteen - the age Vulpes had been when he had defied the chain of command and had earned the Legion a victory and him whip scars all over his back that he will always bore as a memento – was physically trained but mentally unpolished, just as he had been.

When his wounds had sealed without infection under the caring hands of the women healers, a very young, very roughened Vulpes Inculta had been sent to the Head of Caesar's Frumentarii's tent without further explanation.

**_"So, this is the young promising Decanus Caesar thinks we can turn into an actual thinking mind."_ **– the snake of a man had said dispassionately while he had examined him as if he had been no more than another slave – **_"Rough Fox. With such a name, I'm still having my doubts, though."_**

_"Our Lord's wisdom is indisputabl…"_ – he had started to automatically say until a soundly slap across his face had effectively silenced him.

**_"I still have NOT given you permission to speak."_** – the older man had spat, though his voice had remained calm and perfectly composed, a slightly oily quality in its cadences that had repulsed the young Decanus to no end – **_"You nave NOT earned it so far. That being said, from this very point on forward, you will only speak when I'll address you. Not to your comrades, not to your other superiors, not to your former contubernium. From this very instant, you will solely answer to ME. Are we totally clear on this, boy?"_**

He had tried to ask about the specifics of this new particular inability to speak to the rest of the men, but a harder slap had crossed his face to the point his nose had started bleeding.

** _"You will answer to me with either 'yes, Master Anguis' or 'no, Master Anguis'."_ **

He had been left with no information whatsoever and a new master to serve. His men reassigned to other squads… among them his own blood.

All his efforts to keep the three of them together, to provide for them, to be always there as his older brother's duty demanded him… wasted.

From Centurion's assistant to Head of Intelligence's errand boy, his worth within the troops had greatly diminished. The former had flogged him, wanting to lash him to a cross for disobedience. The latter hadn't harbored any expectations beyond getting him on a tight leash like the dog he expected him to be.

Two months of social isolation putting up with Anguis' whims while missing terribly his two siblings had made Vulpes scarce, almost invisible while he had eaten in silence, slept in silence, washed in silence and met more than one beating at the hands of a Centurion when he hadn't verbally answered to their commands.

**_"Silentium est aureum."_ _(1) _**– Anguis had said once those two months had finished –** _"This is the lesson I taught to you, for in silence there is wisdom. And wisdom itself is the best friend a man can ask for."_**

He had been right, because without his voice to fill the emptiness, Vulpes' ears had started working on their own accord. And he had learned a great many things that, before, he hadn't been aware of.

He had learned the secrets legionaries kept from others: a valuable item obtained through illegal means, too liberal interpretations of laws and orders given, an illicit homosexual relationship between two comrades, an Instructor rumored to get too close to the children, a man bedding another's spouse… rumors that had spoken about the Burning Man being still alive… the secrets varied from petty to dangerous, and he was supposed to inform about all of that. Who had spoken, what the crime consisted of, who was/were the perpetrator/s… and how many others had known and hadn't spoken up.

His status had quickly changed from errand boy to rat. Because that was what Frumentarii were, rats.

He had sold many of his comrades' secrets in exchange for nothing, but only the vague notion of being undergoing a test.

He had ended being right about that, eventually. And not without sacrifice.

**_"Acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt."_ _(2) _**– Anguis had enunciated with great grandiloquence each time a secret had been unearthed – **_"For cheating in the name of _egos_ usually leads to _ignominia_. To work for the gods, _ergo,_ for elevated purposes, is to work for Caesar. To work for Caesar is to work for the common good, thus communal work should be observed as the ultimate virtue. The individual has no value beyond his utility to the State, whether as an instrument of war, or production."_**

However, after the due punishment had been administrated to the guilty, he always would mock even his own words.

**_"Qui totum vult totum perdit."_ _(3) _**– he liked to rehearse his quotations, twisting them inside his pupil's impressionable mind – _"**Through greed, there's punishment. Through gluttony for punishment, there's vice. And in vice, there's the human spirit in its rawest form to be found."**_– indulging a bit in a small cup of _vinum dulce_, a non-alcoholic variation of the real thing, he would add – _"**Truly, there are some vices, my dear boy, that both condemn and beautifies the human soul, even wrecked and hollow as theirs are, don't you think?"**_

Vulpes would always remember his lessons, the compulsion of sinking venomous fangs to whatever living thing Anguis happened to cross by.

Seven lessons, he recalled. Seven lessons for seven Deadly Sins as the Malpais Legate had preached while covered in pitch, eyeing the torch that would signal his sentence before the yawning maws of the Grand Canyon.

Seven lessons for seven siblings lost amidst oceans of time. Seven lessons for seven days a week serving a purpose he couldn't put a name to while training both his body and mind.

Seven lessons… for seven times until he had realized he had scratched compulsively his wrists until he had drawn blood.

**_"Quod me nutrit me destruit."_ _(4) _**– he had said one day, playing with words, twisting meanings, making his young pupil start to hate more and more the language he had been forced to learn since he was eleven – **_"Would you say that hunger drives us, boy?"_**

_"I think I do not understand, Master Anguis."_

**_"Do you hunger for something?"_ **– he had asked again, without even looking at him – _"**Oh, you certainly must, for you and I wouldn't be having this conversation at all if you hadn't strived for higher things. Ambition usually fuels motivation."**_

He hadn't said a thing, but the due punishment, thus, the lesson, had followed suit nonetheless: he would hunger for the basic of the basics in this world.

Survival.

He had been thrown to the scorching desert a whole month while being banished from any form of known civilization, meaning he had to provide for himself taking whatever he could find from the land.

He had been thrown with little more than a tunic and no weapons whatsoever. Headaches and blisters had ensued almost immediately following by long nights practicing his camping abilities while making weapons out of little more than sticks and stones.

He had managed to hunt a gecko. Once. And it had been a hatchling. The rest of the time had been collecting banana yucca fruits and dipping his aching form on slightly irradiated waters while hiding from Yao Guai ambushes and Cazador nests.

During all of that time, he hadn't thought about fleeing even once. His curiosity, his pride and the burning hatred he was slowly but surely starting to harbor for his mentor a too strong pull to ignore it.

Besides, to flee was like turning his back to the few remnants of his family. He would never fail them _that_ way.

He had returned gaunt and wild, his white skin covered in wet, refreshing mud and his eyes partially bandaged. Lean, malnourished muscle pumping with nervous tics and exhaustion, avid tongue as he had wolfed down two offered Pork N' Beans cans, his least favorite meal along with maize gruel, the usual chow recruits got at lunchtime.

**_"Fabas indulcet fames, indeed."_ _(5) _**– Anguis had gloated as he had watched his ravenous display, his reptilian eyes fixed upon Vulpes' gnawed wrists, where he had sucked blood more than once to appease his maddening hunger –** _"Now, with your weakness mapped all over your skin, let's start the due correction, shall we?"_**

The aforementioned "correction" had been the four remaining lessons.

_Silent. Betrayer. Survivor._

Later, it had been the turn to _Liar_.

**_"Veritas vincit… Veritas, iustitia, libertas… __Veritas vos liberabit…"_** **_(6) _**– Anguis had enunciated dispassionately – _"**At this point, I am sure you have heard these mottos and known them by heart as the ultimate virtue."**_– then, he had scoffed disdainfully – _"**Atrox melior dulcissima veritas mendaciis… **_**_(7) __You will find in due time that truth's sweetness lies with empty purpose before the power a well-placed lie can unfold."_**

He had shown him how a lie could destroy the life of a man.

One of the Instructors that showed more kindness than the others with the children recruits had been the victim.

A false accusation of pedophilia… and the man had been swiftly disposed on a cross, displayed bruised and naked against the scorching sun until heatstroke, starvation, and dehydration had done their job. Two days later, he was a crows' feast.

Following Anguis' orders, Vulpes had been the one who had started the rumor.

And he had felt nothing.

The next lesson, he had enjoyed.

**_"Ex solem, in umbra."_ **– he had stated once, to Vulpes' much confusion as the common saying was _'Ex umbra, in solem' _**_(8)_**, not the other way around – _"**Shall these words sink deep within your conscience, for we Frumentarii are soldiers… of a different stripe. Capable in battle, yes, but also skilled as infiltrators and agents as well."**_

His first mission as a proper Frumentarius had led Vulpes South, along the Colorado River down to Arizona. A place named Dry Wells and a dangerous tribe that had served Caesar well by means of acting as his scouts.

But they ought to be assimilated within the Legion, for that was Caesar's will.

Not even seventeen yet, Vulpes had assisted his mentor in cornering the Twisted Hairs and subduing them by infiltrating means.

He had acted as Caesar's emissary, bearing his Lord's compliments and a promise of further reward for their loyalty.

As a lanky teenager with the bluest puppy eyes ever, none of the tribals had suspected a thing and he had been invited into a celebration.

Vulpes had laughed, had danced, had sung, had eaten and drank with them, easily blending in, learning their huge encampment from inside, their patrols, their defenses… and their weak spots.

The information he had provided to Anguis had reached a Legatus' desk… and, a week after, the Twisted Hairs were no more.

_Inconspicuous_ had been his new accomplishment, another quality a Frumentarius should exhibit. His fifth lesson.

The sixth one, however…

With more infiltration jobs within more advanced civilizations than tribals had come the need to learn the Profligates' culture, their vocabulary, their beliefs, their aspirations, their hopes, their values and virtues, their morality and dissolution… and their baser needs.

As a seventeen-year-old young man, since his assimilation into the Legion Vulpes hadn't shown the slightest interest on the fairer sex.

He wasn't homosexual, of that he was sure… but his duties, first as a Decanus, later as Anguis' apprentice, had allowed him very little time to think about girls.

Besides, to be completely honest, he had tried to avoid at any cost to engage in sexual intercourse with the slaves. They reminded him of what could have befallen on his sister, pleasuring men she wouldn't have harbored any feelings towards other than fear and disgust. Even hatred.

He had been offered pleasure slaves twice as a reward for his accomplishments… but, on the two occasions, he had told the woman in question to occupy herself with any other task while the two of them were confined within his tent a reasonable enough time to make it look like they were at it. He had limited himself to either mend his armor or tend to his damnable chalky skin that needed daily care in order to avoid burnings.

That being said… he had been plainly _inexperienced_.

In New Vegas, gambling and sex were the two main pillars that sustained business disguised as human interactions. Vulpes had been pretty fast to catch on the many available games' mechanics… but the intimate part had been an entirely different matter.

The first time he had botched a job when he couldn't bring himself to "going upstairs" with the bored wife of an NCR high dignitary that would prove to be a very useful asset in information regards to the Legion… Anguis had almost flayed him.

_"**A legionary who can't bed a Profligate whore."**_– he had spat – **_"Pathetic would be a very kind term to apply in this situation, boy." _**– however, as the reptilian man's eyes had calibrated him with cold intent, he had added – **_"Perhaps… it is time to make a man out of you."_**

He had been forced inside a room on the Gomorrah with a prostitute. And Anguis had made himself a witness of the deed should the young man would attempt dodging the situation like he had done in the past. The man, somehow, had known.

_**"Be grateful that I have hired a human girl and not a ghoul gigolo, cheaper as the latter are."** _– Anguis had hissed from the sofa he had languorously sat on, his cold eyes filled with perverse satisfaction while watching his pupil blanching more than it was already usual in him – **_"Proceed. I shall correct your endeavors during the process."_**

_Humiliated _wouldn't have even started to cover how he had felt at that very moment. Vulpes had felt_ violated _in all the word sense.

Worst part of it had been that the girl had been clearly a drug addict desperate to make some coin to buy her next dose. Her unfocused sight and trembling hands had been a crystal-clear giveaway. She had even attempted to strike a seductive pose that hadn't even been half-convincing. Not to a consummate liar.

_"Cease this ridiculous charade at once and tell me what to do."_ – Vulpes had hissed coldly, his blue eyes glacial as he had gazed upon the prostitute with disgust – _"Neither you or I want to be here more than necessary, so the sooner we start, the sooner we'll end with… _this_."_

To his much chagrin, his nervous system had enjoyed the ride… however, his mind wouldn't cease tormenting him and how incredibly filthy he had felt once it was over.

The prostitute had left the rented room and Vulpes hadn't wasted time going directly to the bathroom to cleanse himself of the overwhelming, disgusting sensation.

He had scrubbed himself until he had drawn blood.

But the lesson hadn't finished as he had found himself, face to face, with Callidus Anguis when the man had drawn the curtain of his shower and had grabbed him by the throat, slamming him to the wet tiled wall.

And he recalled locking the door of the bathroom.

_**"Necesse est aut imiteris aut oderis."**_ **_(9) _**– he had whispered, cutting the warm water to leave his pupil shivering while pinned against the wall – **_"Imitate what have you learned today and act in consequence. Hate it as much as you please, but bring results. The Legion doesn't need doubts or _weaknesses_…"_ **– he had added, picking one of the younger man's hands, forcing him to look at his scarring wrists – **_"… Like today's display. May this serve you as a warning that you are not unique, you are not granted any special concessions and you are entirely expendable."_ **– with that, he had released him and had walked outside the bathroom, leaving a very vulnerable teenager to soak in his misery while feeding his hatred until it had become an entity of its own. His own monster.

The next day, he had engaged again the bored, lonely wife of that NCR high dignitary in conversation and, this time, he hadn't shied away. The job had been done once he had managed to gain the due information from her.

The disgust and self-hatred would always leave a bitter aftertaste on his mouth… but orders were orders.

And he was _Expendable_. Just like any other legionary.

So, his last lesson…

** _BOOM._ **

A sudden gust of fetid air penetrated Vulpes' sensitive nostrils while a dense, dirty fog started to expand in the distance quickly from one of the big buildings through windows, doors and any other available crevices on the structure.

As the fog expanded, plants around the zone and any other vegetal life started to wither at high speed, wrinkling and burning as if some sort of acid were eating them away. It was a mesmerizing sight. One that was making Vulpes sweat while an odd, sick warm sensation expanded from his chest to his belly right almost to his groin.

He knew how obscene and visceral was this response in the face of destruction, a destruction he had plotted to unleash for months… but he couldn't help to feel how he felt. To hate the way he still hated, to drown his conscience amidst memories of lessons, of whippings across his back, of ill-conceived strategy, of marching since being eleven… of that entity, the Republic, that had blocked the Legion's advances across the Mojave.

The Legatus… the failing… the pitch… Dimidio… brother against brother… women painting their virgin daughters… Four years ago, he had thought Caesar invincible… and the Republic had proved them otherwise.

How they _dared_? How they dared _antagonize_ the Bull and _win_? How they dared showing him this alternate reality where his tribe had been _conquered_ by a foe the Republic could have easily _repelled_?

How they dared standing at the edge of The Dam, tall and proud, seizing power and victory… while looking down on many proud tribes that had _sacrificed_ their _identities_ to forge a better tomorrow just to face the past in its democratic, senseless bureaucratic, glory?

How they dared not having _rescued_ them?! _Where_ had been the West when the East had _needed_ them more?!

_Profligates. Degenerates._ Self-serving remnants of the Old World. They deserved to be humiliated and punished. His own lessons would surpass Anguis' teachings by far; a country_ taught_ by just one man; a civilization _corrected_ by the will of one fox.

They would wish to never have come to this desert. They would wish to have lost the First Battle for the Hoover Dam and turn tail back to Shady Sands.

They would wish to have _never_ left Vault 15.

His vicious thoughts, as well as the violence in his bodily reactions, were truncated the very moment he spotted human silhouettes running out of the now infested Camp Searchlight. Snipers mostly, soldiers who had been positioned far from the exploding dirty bombs and had caught sight of the insalubrious fog.

Where were his men?

After ten whole minutes without any news, the intense need of scratching his wrists had returned with a vengeance to Vulpes when, out of the blue, he had heard distant shooting echoing on the deserted valley. It had gone on for a while until silence had engulfed the area.

Heavy, dead silence.

Another good thirty minutes passed and Vulpes had already switched to listen some music with one of the Pip-Boy's earphones in a frail attempt to empty his head.

The fog had coated the entire encampment with a radioactive yellow cloud. A Bubble Effect meant to asphyxiate any form of life inside… or to turn them into a monstrous mockery of un-life.

The Fox's eyes stung.

** _"Run for cover,  
_ ** ** _My sense of fear is running thin."_ **

He shouldn't worry this way. What did he care if they were dead? He had _dozens_ of Frumentarii agents at his disposition. The lives of those four held no worth for Caesar, nor for him.

Frumentarii were _expendable_.

** _"Undercover,  
_ ** ** _Just like a candle in the wind."_ **

His stomach had started churning when his binoculars caught sight of two human silhouettes dragging a third by the armpits.

** _"Tell everybody, tell everybody:  
_ ** ** _Brothers, sisters, the ending is coming."_ **

A chorus of voices perforated his left eardrum with their hymn for the fallen as the three silhouettes grew nearer and their facial structures registered as familiar on his retinas.

Four had gone, three had returned.

Vulpes didn't take off his earphone as he felt it was, right now, the only thread that held him together with the reality.

** _"Every morning,  
_ ** ** _I'm staring shadows in the eye..."_ **

The lost fourth was a rookie… but the wounded the other two dragged was Maximus.

Under his boots, a trail of dark blood painted the landscape.

** _"Oh, good morning,  
_ ** ** _will you just wait until I die?"_ **

Three bullets had punctured his right knee down to a bloody pulp and another one had perforated his torso under his ribs. The liver.

The hymn for the fallen raised their dead voices again as Vulpes kneeled swiftly at one side of the dusty mattress where the men had left Maximus. Their return met a silent commotion from the rest of their camp, the sight of carnage and blood shocking to the youngest.

He was already preparing a self-made cooked version of the Stimpacks when Maximus' hand grasped one of his burning wrists.

"My Lord…" - he gasped, blood oozing from both his nostrils – "Don't… waste resources on me…"

"Now, now, who's the Head of the Frumentarii, legionary?" – Vulpes said, attempting at humor even when he knew that inner hemorrhage was way out of his medical expertise – "Stay put."

Nonetheless, Maximus' hand squeezed his forearm.

"I do not want… to live in disgrace… as a crippled man, my Lord…" – he whispered, signaling with his tear-filled eyes the destroyed knee – "Please… give me… an honorable death…"

Vulpes' blood froze in his veins. His blue eyes darted from the dark blood pooling under Maximus' body to his man's eyes.

This could be _Coyote_; this could be his brother.

He left his side to dart towards the storage tent and emerged merely a few seconds after, a large hunting knife in hand.

Kneeling again, he grabbed Maximus' forearm and the young man imitated him. A comrades' salutation.

"_Vale_, Maximus." – he murmured before perforating his heart and twisting the blade to, almost immediately, seize his head and break his neck, his voice lowering, switching languages – _"Sea cual sea la Otra Vida que nos aguarda, te la has ganado a pulso." _**_(A)_**

That way, he had allowed the other Frumentarii to dispose of Maximus' corpse as he mulled over the letters he should send to which spouse and which relatives, communicating the tragic loss.

For, before adopting the name of Maximus, the young man had gone by the name of _Maatiaak_, from the neighbor tribe _"Los Nuevos Nahuas"._

Now, _"La Jauría"_ and _"Los Nuevos Nahuas"_ served Caesar… and died in his name.

Every last of them was _expendable_.

** _"I just want to take it in.  
_ ** ** _Even when your fire runs out,  
_ ** ** _will you start it up again?  
_ ** ** _We are fallen!"_ **

Every last of them died _alone_.

The instant Anguis’ blood had flowed between his fingers when the Fox had satiated his thirst for vengeance tearing open the Serpent’s gullet under the approving eye of Caesar, the venomous man, even in his death, had taught him a valuable lesson.

_Invictus_, the Fox had risen from the arena, yes.

But he had done it alone.

_Silent. Betrayer. Survivor. Liar. Inconspicuous. Expendable._

_Alone._

But alone he didn’t feel at the moment. Right now, the Courier’s spirit was with him, whispering through lyrics parts of her experience; the message she brought, suddenly, made much more sense to him.

_Mercuria_ had spoken.

* * *

"The Parties now wish to lay down in writing the terms and conditions for the execution of the Project Proposal. Whereas…"

Not the first sheet of that shit of a contract had been read by the lips of the girl… and Swank was already having a huge headache.

Just his luck that one of House's human emissaries had come not to be buttered up, but instead going straight to business after stating the reasons for her presence on their casino.

"… As used in this Agreement the following terms, either in plural or in the single form…"

He was sweating again. The girl had not come this time with her boyfriend – Danny had insisted that she didn't like addressing their relationship as such, whatever – but rather accompanied with the NCR bully from the other night and… ugh… the filthy cybernetic mongrel that was drooling – _again_ – all over the _motherfucking carpets_.

"Duties, Term and Compensation: the Employee's duties, term of engagement…"

Shit, this was sounding less and less like a contract and more and more like a _life sentence._ It was like _marrying_ House. Swank didn't know what notion made him sick the most.

"… During the term of this agreement, the Employee shall devote as much as his productive time, energy and abilities…"

_And profits._ – Swank thought bitterly. He had already listened to the percentage part and he will be agreeing to let go a good 12% more than when Benny had signed. That was the penalization for their former leader's crimes. Let the just pay for the sinners.

He hated Benny so much right now.

"… both Parties understand and agree that the Contractor may have access to the confidential information to the Employee Party…"

Benny vamooses and he had been left holding the trash bag. He couldn't even convince his Brothers to escape and become Boot Riders again. House's securitrons wouldn't allow them leave the Strip without bearing a startling resemblance with kitchen colanders.

Fuck Benny. Fuck everything.

"So?"

Returning to the real world, Swank blinked twice before meeting the cold, black as ink, gaze of those eyes he had found so charming at first sight.

"You were saying, baby doll?" – he ventured, keeping his elegant façade while not imprinting as much sass to his voice as he would under normal circumstances.

The girl before him huffed with impatience.

"I didn't come to exchange gallantries with you, Swank." – she stated, her petulant inner teenager resurfacing from that Ice Queen business shit that sounded so unnatural in her – "So, do you agree with the terms of the contract or what?"

Finally, a _person_ instead of a fucking _parrot_. Not that Swank had even seen a parrot in all his life, but whatever.

"Oh, yes, yes. I agree." – he confirmed, relieved to leave the monotone contract-discourse behind – "Sure as lack of rain."

"Good." – she nodded, almost shoving the papers to his face – "You ought to sign both copies, you understand. One for you and the other…"

"… For Big Man on the Shining Tower, yeah. Got the hint already, babe." – he ended for her, taking his trusted stylus from his jacket's front pocket, feigning a bit of re-reading that got the gal more puffed-cheeked than she already was, signing his best signature on both last papers – "Done and done." – he said triumphantly as he handed House's copy back to her – "And now that we've got this unpleasant business out of the way, baby, I would like to extend my apologies to you and your b…" – he stopped mid-sentence as her eyes acquired a murderous gleam. _Sheesh_, since when having some groping, smooching time and a bit of hey-hey with a guy made gals so defensive about it? – "… I mean, _friend_, for the possible damages that Benny may have inflicted upon you two."

"And?" – goodie God, she was the demanding type. Teenager indeed.

"And I would like to give you the key to a deluxe suite in case you might grow…" – inclining forwards as if divulgating a secret, he added – "… you know, _tired_ of Big Man's constant _monitoring_ of your pretty faces inside the Lucky 38." – she accepted the key without uttering a word, her eyes telling him that she already knew what he meant – "Plus, a one thousand credit free of charge worth in chips you can either spend in games on our casino or simply change for caps or another foreign exchange on our cashiers. Sounds good, eh?" – he smiled, pleased to close a bargain so easily. And without having to include alcoholic beverages or other consumables on the deal.

"And I would have total access to either area on The Tops." – she counteracted, earning his hands raising in a defensive gesture – "No gorillas telling me where not to go, no persuasive shit, no nothing. If I damn please to inspect your fucking private room or throwing a party on the Presidential Suite, I'm doing it. Got it?"

"Whatever you wish, babe, whatever you wish." – he acquiesced.

Satisfied with his answer, she had taken her damnable papers, her brute and her mangy mutt, and had gone straight to the cashier zone.

_Predictable._ – Swank mused, lounging in his new President armchair, enjoying a glass of the good stuff Benny used to reserve for himself – _I bet Screen Moustache pays peanuts unless there something in it for him._

That girl didn't know who she had signed with.

* * *

Hands full of blessed (and much-needed) caps, Courier Six had pressed the calling button, after making a tour around the various elevators available, and had finally guessed which one would bring her to the thirteenth floor.

Benny's room floor.

It hadn't taken much nudging for Swank's new right-hand guy, a dude with an eyepatch named Tommy Torini or something (she would eventually forget the man's name, so she didn't give a fuck about it), for him to hand it over the aforementioned room's key.

Once inside the small quadrangle, Rex's soft panting had been the only sound amidst the sudden silence once out of the rambunctious Casino Floor.

"Nice maneuver down there, girlie." – Boone said out of the sudden, his soft voice barely a whisper. An amused whisper of all – "Guy was so nervous he was sweating like a pig."

Six grinned.

"He's got _exactly_ what he deserves." – she answered – "Fuck the Chairmen, Boone."

"Yeah, fuck them, girlie."

And this was why she loved Boone so much. Straight to the point, yet effective. He reminded her of her Big Bro so much sometimes.

"It's true that we work for House now?"

The question held a cautious undertone Six couldn't help but notice since the first syllable.

Turning around, she gave him a tired look. Whatever she would say to Boone, she would say it looking him in the eye.

"I've… signed a contract of sorts with him." – she answered cautiously as well, waiting for her most trusted companion to digest the notion – "Please, share your thoughts, Boone."

He took some time before answering. It wasn't that Boone was slow as many people thought, it was that he wouldn't speak to say nothing of importance.

"I don't like it." – he admitted – "Man's got a reputation for being a controlling freak. Many people think he's not even a man, but a really-good programmed machine from the past."

"About that…" – Six hesitated, not entirely sure how much information she should share with Boone. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, but she didn't want to put him in danger for knowing too much – "A man, he is. A human man, I mean." – she could tell Boone's curiosity was picked, so she elaborated – "Either a human brain inside a jar or a two-hundred-sixty-one-year-old man with a mutation of his own making him extremely long-lived, I cannot tell for sure."

Boone's small eyes had gotten the size of platters behind his sunglasses.

"You mean… that he's the _actual_ magnate that ruled Vegas before the War?" – he sounded unconvinced – "Either he's a ghoul or he's a fucking computer, I say. No human man lives that much."

"You have no idea how advanced was the bio-medicine and tech in general before the War." – she replied – "He was the founder of one of the most powerful technology companies that had ever existed. RobCo Industries' partnership with Vaul-Tec was and still is considered the most successful joint venture in the History of the American industry. Not even Apple, Walmart, Amazon, Ford, Nuka-Cola or Poseidon Energy were so profitable as RobCo was. He's the real man, I assure you. He has invested a great deal of money to be where he is today."

Half of those pre-War Companies, Boone had never heard of.

"How can you tell, girlie?" – was his appalling question.

How could she, indeed, be so sure about something nobody had been able to prove till the date, he would ponder… And how was she supposed to answer that?

The training… the Power Armors… the Pip-Boys… the Vaults… even the very rations that had come for exclusive military use during the War were thanks to Robert Edwin House's generosity, his vision of the impending nuclear Armageddon calculated to the millimeter, his investments in military technology a means to stop the nuclear missiles that had rained all over North America and the Mojave.

If the former desert of the State of Nevada was radiation-free for most of its parts, it was thanks to House's predictions and preventive repel attack once the missiles from China had been halfway the globe.

Her Big Bro always said that the truth would liberate her… but she was so scared.

Scared of what Boone and the rest would think of her if they found out.

"The Vaults provided us with such documentation." – she stated lamely, signaling her Pip-Boy – "Everything's here."

She could see the myriad of questions forming on Boone's eyes, linking threads, trying to decipher the big enigma he had in front of him.

However, their haul upwards thirteen floors had come to an end, and they walked corridors in silence until they stood before Benny's former suite.

Upon inserting the key on its lock, Six openly ignored the state of disarray the several rooms, including the bathroom, were and crossed the smoke-stained carpeted floors to the hole in the wall.

If Boone was impressed, he didn't show it at all when Benny's workshop came into view.

_"Oh, hi again! Can I help you with something else?"_ – the synthetic voice of Yes Man greeted the two of them while Rex bared his fangs in silence – _"Wow! And you came with more friends? I'm very honored but… how many people do you intend to let know about my existence? Not that I'm complaining, but if you want to seize the control of New Vegas all by yourself… It is best if I remain a secret, you know."_

Upon hearing this very declaration, however, the NCR ex-sniper's brows furrowed tightly.

"What's this, girlie?" – he asked – "What's this pile of circuity talking about?"

_"Well, that's very simple!" _– Yes Man exclaimed cheerfully – _"You see…"_

"Yes Man." – Six cut it mid-sentence – "You're _not_ being helpful."

_"I am not?"_ – the machine AI pondered, confused – _"Tell me how can I be of use, then!"_

"You can be useful by shutting up."

_"But…"_ – the AI faltered.

"Shut up until I say otherwise."

_"Alrighty!"_ – it exclaimed, cheerful and creepy as always – _"I'll wait for your command then!"_

Once she got the annoying AI silent, Six met Boone's steely gaze.

"What. Is. This. About?" – he repeated, punctuating each word.

Six sighed.

"A Plan B." – she admitted – "Just in case House turns to be not so agreeable in the long term."

"You plan on betraying him?" – she could hear incredulity in his voice.

"No." – she said, turning around to the pirated securitron to find a connector of some sort – "At least… it's not my first option. But in case he gets too high on his horse, I want to have an alternative viable plan by overwriting his inner network with Yes Man assistance. That way, his control over the Strip's securitrons will be my problem to deal with instead of lamenting my poor judgment in employer-choosing matters."

"Why?"

"Because, like you, I don't trust House's deal with power. He fancies himself an autocrat and, while I have to concede to him that he's truly a visionary, there are no guarantees that the centuries isolated hadn't damaged his psyche. I don't want to help a dictator to rule over so many lives."

"And what if he ends being just that?" – he asked – "Your plan is ruling New Vegas all by yourself?"

"I don't know, okay?!" – she exclaimed, frustrated at not finding a single USB/Mini-VGA/DVI port – "Maybe, after working out some deals with the Republic, I might give the power of New Vegas' securitrons to them. Anything but letting _other parties _having the upper hand on this."

That had calmed him a bit, so she got some time to think.

"Yes Man." – she said after fruitless search all over the securitron's outer case – "Do your hardware happen to have a port of any sort?"

_"Oh, definitely not!"_ – it exclaimed happily – _"Benny and the woman who programmed me were very thorough by not installing any direct connection in my external case! Should anyone would want to mess with my software by means of an external device, they would have to do it through wireless means or dismounting me piece by piece!"_

"Okay, can you open your Bluetooth connection and allow my Pip-Boy ID access to your memory?"

_"Right away!"_

It took less than a minute to establish a solid connection.

"Amazing." – she murmured after taking a peek at the program's inner code. It was like poetry translated into Python language: clear to a fault – "I need for you to copy your AI matrix to an SD card I'm going to insert in my device." – a little jewel she had found while assisting Novac in getting rid of the feral ghouls plague, she had formatted and renamed it a while ago – "This one."

_"Wow!"_ – Yes Man exclaimed, a shred of what can be only cataloged as genuine interest seeping through its synthetic voice – _"How clever you are! You are going to keep me hidden while you act under your boss' nose!"_

"That's a very mean way to put it." – Six replied, her eyes following closely the percentage of copied archives – "But basically, yes."

After a while, mostly due to the slowness of Bluetooth connection, all the files got inside her SD card and she breathed with relief. She had feared the SD card space would have proven insufficient to host a whole AI.

"Very well." – she sighed, addressing the securitron once more – "Yes Man, indicate me where is the computer mainframe of The Tops. We are going to do some hacking work."

_"I will load you a map!"_ – the synthetic voice cheered, to her much dismay, from the speaker of her Pip-Boy. The fucking AI acted like a virus! It had seized control over her device! Soon, to her astonished eyes, the Pip-OS of her device mutated and showed a smiling interface that resembled suspiciously of the one she had seen on the securitron version of Yes Man – _"Here you go!" _– it exclaimed happily while opening the file and incorporating it into the "Map" section. She even didn't have to switch the menus manually – _"I like being in here! There is much more room for improvement than with the _Mk I Operating System_ the securitrons have!"_

Directing Boone a consternated glance, Six looked again at her new creature, attached to her wrist. Rex wailed softly, licking her right hand as if wanting to console her.

"God… what have I done?"

* * *

Not a day after his infiltration and ultimate destruction plan on Searchlight had come to fruition, Vulpes Inculta had directed his steps to Cottonwood Cove.

Once there, he had exchanged a few words with the slave master, Canyon Runner, about the next batch of supplies and armament that will arrive from the Northwest Raid Camp and had almost immediately jumped into Cursor Lucullus' boat.

Once aboard, instead of making polite and mostly vapid conversation with the ferryman, he had bid his salutations to submerge himself in his new device's 'Classical Music', starting by some composer named _J. S. Bach_ that lulled the long hours he had ahead until they would reach The Fort's shore. No lyrics, all feeling.

He had been conscious of the hard stare the affronted ferryman was directing at him, so he had switched to read a book… still with the earphones on. He chose something entirely different from what he would have felt inclined to read and, instead, selected to read this long message the Courier, by means of lyrics, books, and some chosen movies, was trying to communicate to him.

She meant something by those words translated into cultural references. He had to discover what.

So, he had started something called _"The Neverending Story"._ It had seized his attention since page one.

He resented the instant Lucullus had reached mainland, for he had to abandon Atreyu and Bastian and become the protagonist of his own life once again.

"_Ave_, Vulpes Inculta." – a Decanus greeted him. Another of the countless nameless faces that came and went through the waves of war. This one looked young – "Our Lord Caesar was eagerly awaiting your report on Searchlight."

"_Ave_, Decanus." – he saluted, knowing very well how his reception had been carefully programmed. A Decanus was a good sign instead of being received by a Centurion or even worse: a Praetorian – "The sun is still high on the sky, I surmise this would be a good time to pay our Lord a visit?"

The other man blinked nervously.

"You would have to check that with Lucius. It is not my place to say, Master Frumentarius." – something was wrong. Usually, a petition to meet with the _Imperator_ was met either with a _"Yes"_ or a _"No"._ This strange ambiguity made Vulpes immediately tense – "Now that your presence in The Fort is official, I must return to my duties. _Vale_." – after that, he had scurried away.

Strangest conversation ever. Terse sentences, ambiguous answer, prompt farewell.

He had to speak with Lucius right away.

A quarter hour later, he felt completely disheartened.

"He's not feeling well." – had been Lucius' answer – "He's sleeping now. He suffers from headaches from time to time and retires inside his tent to rest. It has been like this for a while, though."

"Why I wasn't informed?" – Vulpes had demanded.

"The same reason Lanius doesn't know as well: because you two only deal with Caesar's orders through letters and emissaries. You are not here to watch him stare into space, blink a few times, then keep talking like nothing happened."

Vulpes had reserved his thoughts about a possible early case of senile dementia. He wasn't really sure how old Caesar was but, even for NCR standards, he was old. Old enough to develop brain deteriorating-related illnesses. Or so Vulpes presumed. He was no doctor after all.

Nonetheless, he had abandoned Lucius' tent slightly depressed and a bit frustrated knowing that he would have to wait to the next day to return to the Strip… should Caesar deemed it convenient, that is.

That had left plenty of time for him to walk down the hill, directing his steps to the children's training area.

He hadn't understood the need to bring children recruits so close to NCR territory, needlessly exposing them to danger as they were still legionaries in training.

But he had been ending to appreciate their presence within the camp, mostly due to the fact that…

"_Ave_, Magister Arrius." – he saluted – "Our future generations are well, I hope?

"_Ave_, Vulpes Inculta." – the veteran, an old man with a goatee and a mohawk, only suitable for forming purposes now, saluted him with a brisk inclination of his head, his eyes never losing the little boys between the ages of eight and twelve struggling to make ten pushups in one round or to keep jogging around the camp without becoming a nuisance to the rest of adult legionaries – "The same as always, I guess. I know I am harsh on the children sometimes, but they will become excellent legionaries, I'm quite proud of them."

"They will, indeed." – Vulpes nodded, searching with his eyes one boy in particular – "I have come to check on my pupil. Has he finished with his daily training and duties?"

"I would think so." – the older man confirmed before picking a metallic, kind of rusted whistle from the collar that hanged on his neck, making it emit a powerful, although irritating sound – _"Numerus Novem!"_ – he barked – "Present yourself here!"

Numbers. Legionary boys were given numbers for the lack of a name loving parents would have otherwise bestowed upon them. Those were the orphans, either reconditioned from tribes or raised since babies inside the Temple.

Their name was something, if they survived training, they - usually - earned upon reaching fifteen.

A sweating, panting boy not older than nine or ten approached the adults and his pale freckled face illuminated briefly the very instant he recognized Vulpes.

His eyes were big and bright, colored in a galvanic blue.

"Master Inculta!" – he positively _beamed_ until he caught himself under the hard stare of his Instructor – "I mean… _Ave_, Master Inculta. True to Caesar!" – he expressed, proudly, as he imitated the salutation Magister Arrius had taught them, fist over one's heart, then extended arm.

Vulpes nodded and, with the silent acquiescence of the Instructor, took the boy with him as they picked on a steady pace towards the Master Frumentarius' tent, nodding briskly at the many salutations Vulpes received upon his arrival.

Once inside the tent, a tent Vulpes, luckily, hadn't to share with a single soul, the Frumentarius dropped the pretense.

"How are you, Lupus, how are you?" – he asked, crouching to the boy's visual height, cupping his full cheeks with both hands, combing the child's thick rebellious light brown brows with his thumbs with evident fondness – "How has it been in here? Have you been working hard? Have you been learning your alphabet as I told you?"

The boy smiled brightly. Master Inculta would always be so nice to him. He had appointed him as his assistant. He had even given him a name! It was a secret name, though; he was still too small to be officially assigned a name.

But the name Master Inculta had chosen for him made him feel proud. Master Inculta though that he was as fierce as a wolf. He would be Lupus when he would be of age.

"Yes!" – he exclaimed, his blue eyes shining, his slightly overlapping front teeth bearing the most innocent of the smiles – "Would you like to hear it?"

Vulpes smiled. He never received welcomings warmer than the ones this child would gift him with.

"Go ahead." – he encouraged while sitting on a wooden stool he had in his tent, one of the few luxuries he could afford being the Head of Intelligence besides a small table, a small metallic vat to wash himself, a bedroll and a couple footlockers where he stored his scarce belongings – "Let us start with the _"A",_ shall we?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

"A for _'Abomination'_."

The boy was clever.

"B for _'Blasphem_y_'_."

Not many children his age would learn such complicated words this easily.

"C for _'Contrition'_."

And actually knowing what those very words _meant_.

"D for _'Damnation'_."

It had to show, eventually. When he had been around Lupus' age, Vulpes had been his mother's pride when she would ask him to pronounce archaic and very elaborated words in a language only them two had spoken amidst Spanish speakers.

He had never disappointed her.

"E for _'Eternal Damnation'_."

Vulpes smiled, a knowing look making his eyes spark.

"Have you just attempted to make it pass two words as one, Lupus?"

The boy visibly blushed.

"Try again."

"Erm… E for… _'Equanimity'_?"

"Very good."

Their mother would be so proud of both of them.

* * *

One of the things Gabban found about Techatticup Mine to be more dangerous than the barrels' dump full of radioactive debris at the bottom of the mine… was its dangerous closeness to Nelson.

Parallel to the destruction of Camp Searchlight, his brother had been plotting for weeks overtaking Nelson by force, and that was why he had disposed strategic positions for Decanus Dead Sea and his men outside the abandoned Brotherhood of Steel bunker, Northeast of the NCR settlement… and Decanus Alexus on Techatticup Mine, Southeast.

He hadn't known at the time that the mine had been irradiated. Otherwise, Dead Sea would have been the one stationed there. His brother had suffered a brief violent breakdown when he had been informed. He had almost bordered on psychotic, Gabban had been the one bandaging his bleeding hands and wrists after that.

He sometimes feared for his brother's sanity. The last years had been incredibly stressful for both of them.

Stopping at a prudential distance, Gabban cleared his throat twice before howling.

He repeated the action a second time and he was soon rewarded with a chorus of howls, human and animal alike, that signaled his welcome.

A sudden warm feeling washed over the nineteen-year-old as he stepped into his twin's territory. Every last of Alexus' men had pertained once either to _"Los Nuevos Nahuas"_ or to their tribe, _"La Jauría"_. Gabban was glad that his twin would be surrounded by trusted men who would keep their mouths shut about Alexus' secret.

It had taken some years, but thanks to Vulpes rank, Gabban and him had been able to put together the remnants of both tribes who were old enough to still remember either under Alexus' command… or within Frumentarii ranks.

And the wives of all those men were either Neighbors or Sisters as well.

Gabban thought sometimes that his older brother's sentimentalisms about their lost family would be one day the death of him… but, if Vulpes fell, many men and women would follow him without hesitation.

Loyal to your Neighbors, loyal to your Pack.

Soon, happy barks preceded pawing and licking from the many Legion mongrels Alexus kept as door's guardians. Gabban wasn't so keen on dogs as his two siblings were, but he accepted the canine love nonetheless.

"_Ave_, Gabban." – he heard Alexus' unmistakable voice addressing him as he approached, a click of the Decanus' tongue and the dogs sat on the dusty ground, still wagging their tails happily – "I wasn't expecting you. Your visit wasn't scheduled."

"Charming as ever." – Gabban teased, clasping his sibling's forearm in salutation – "_Ave_, Alexus. I bring gifts from our brother."

"_Who_ else?" – Alexus growled with slight annoyance, eyeing the duffle bag Gabban had brought still – "Good stuff?"

"The best." – replied the other, producing the box of Sugar Bombs intended for Alexus.

The Decanus' hand seized the prize and, tearing the envelope, fished avidly for a handful after taking out the Decanus helmet.

"Shit, I adore this crap so much." – Alexus growled between munches.

"Careful now." – Gabban laughed – "Our brother would chastise you for using such vocabulary."

"I don't give a fuck about what he thinks." – was Alexus' reply, still between munches.

"I'm sure he's aware of that." – said Gabban, still smiling, relieved to look at his twin's semblance and detecting no immediate traces of radiation poisoning. The physical resemblance between them was so evident that many people tended to overlook the tiny, very subtle details that separated them – "Also, this as well." – he added, producing a bottle full of Buffout.

Alexus grabbed the new offering and hid it quickly inside one boot as if fearing other eyes could be watching.

"Thanks." – the Decanus said dryly.

Gabban sighed. Now, to the most difficult part.

"And now…" – he inhaled, predicting his sibling's next reaction the instant he produced the RadAway – "He instructed me to inject you with this."

Alexus bared teeth.

"Like shit you're giving me that garbage."

"See this?" – Gabban raised his left forearm, the small hematoma decorating his inner elbow – "Same treatment."

"And you allowed him to do that?"

"Following his new electronic toy's meter, I was already an aspiring ghoul. You, by now, I venture would be closer to a Glowing One."

"Fuck you."

"You know he feels responsible." – Gabban's voice lowered – "He cares for you. He fears for you. This is his way of showing it."

Alexus groaned in defeat. Each time Vulpes came with his big brother issues returning love in exchange for every rude remark one could conjure, it was already a lost battle.

And Alexus _detested_ losing battles.

"You bumbling pair of _pussies_." – the Decanus hissed – "Fine. But not here."

Gabban followed his twin inside the mine. He would follow _her_ at the very Gates of Hell if necessary. That was what brothers were for.

* * *

Several miles Northwest, ahead of the REPCONN Headquarters, a large group of raiders inside an apparently abandoned farm met their gruesome demise at the hands of a lone wandering figure.

A giant mound full of vicious fire ants barely half an hour walking Northeast was next.

A subtle stench of rotting decay and a carpet of bullet shells the only signature left behind apparent common pattern to the untrained eye.

However, for a more experienced tracker, the trail of an unmistakable men's size 17 combat boots heading North on a very straight line would have informed that the lone figure had an intended destination: Camp McCarran.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LATIN:
> 
> (1) - "Silence is golden."  
(2) - "Mortal actions never deceive the gods."  
(3) - "He who wants everything loses everything."  
(4) - "What nourishes me destroys me."  
(5) - "Hunger sweetens the beans."  
(6) - "Truth conquers... Truth, justice, [and] liberty... Truth will liberate you [all]..."  
(7) - "The bitter truth is better than the sweetest lies."  
(8) - "From the light, into the shadow" - The common saying was "From the shadow, into the light.", thus why Vulpes is confused.  
(9) - "You must either imitate or loathe the world."
> 
> Side Note: yes, Vulpes' mentor was quite fastidious with his Latin quotations.
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> SPANISH:
> 
> (A) - "Whatever afterlife awaits us, you have earned it."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: I'm writing this in a haste, so I might change it later. Thank you so much for your support, readers, Kudos and Reviews (justafoxhound, your reviews are making my day, thank you for your kind support <3 ). I'm sorry there was no Caesar in this one, but it was long enough as it is now, so I decided to make Caesar's grand entrance into the story for the next chapter. I have already written his conversation with Vulpes, so don't you worry ;)
> 
> Thank you again! Cheers!
> 
> PD: yeah, Disney's Hunchback of Notre-Dame reference. Kill me.


	9. Disposable teens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains a mild-descriptive skinning session of a dog's head, animal mistreatment, psychotropic-induced hallucinations, gore, violence, and women's commodification. If you're sensitive to these topics, either don't read or proceed with caution.

* * *

When Vulpes Inculta had bow knee first hour in the morning inside Caesar’s tent, he had procured to avoid the _Imperator’s_ scrutinizing eyes, fist on the ground in respect, as he had given his report on Searchlight.

**“Very well.”** – had been the man’s dismissive, rather unimpressed way to address his victory, the sacrifice of his men… the dark need such destruction stirred inside him – **“A shame the camp cannot be of much use to the Legion in the current state you describe it is.”** – he had inclined over Vulpes, his words sharp as daggers – **“You’re getting creative, Inculta, I’ll give you that. But it may be in the Legion’s best interests, thus _my interests_, if you might… _refrain_ from destroying the landmark you set your eyes on. Resources are valuable, and I don’t like to waste resources _unnecessarily_.”** – what did the _Imperato_r want? Magic? Vulpes’ field tactics usually revolved around delivering a lesson or depriving the enemy of their resources, _that_ was the primary pillar cementing Frumentarii’s very existence. And, usually, both intents mixed incredibly well. If he wanted plain raiding followed by exemplary executions, why he didn’t assign those tasks to a Centurion or to a Legatus? - **“I believe your next move would be Nelson.”** – then, the _Imperator_ had paused, expecting Vulpes’ formal confirmation.

Inside Caesar’s tent, everything always played inside the Frumentarius’ mind like a chessboard full of moves and possibilities. Caesar was very fond of verbal sparring, battles of wills, word-twisting, quotations, witty comebacks… in a word: complete _mindfuck_.

Vulpes admitted that he was a man of a high intellect and a visionary… but he profoundly detested when _said_ man of _said_ high intellect would choose him as his personal sparring opponent.

“Yes, _Domine_.” – the Fox confirmed, his voice a dispassionate, monotone rumble – “I have stationed two _contubernia_ on opposite sides of Nelson so they can block any possible escape. However, when the time comes, they have orders to leave intentional witnesses.”

**“A lesson on the survivors, then?”**

“Yes, _Domine_.”

**“Well, well… didn’t that Anguis _serpent_ teach you well, Inculta?”**

That _stung_. More than it should.

After all, the Serpent’s blood had been his to claim in the arena two years ago.

The _Imperator_ _tsked_, evidently amused by the younger man’s silence.

**“Get the fuck up already, Vulpes.”** – he scoffed – **“You bow any lower and you might end with your nose stuck in the mud.”**

He would switch from _‘Inculta’_ to _‘Vulpes’_ just that easily. The Frumentarius had come to discern very well his Lord’s moods by just the way he praised him calling him _sly fox_ or the way he spat his accursed _nickname_.

Just the same he had done with his mentor.

“Yes, _Domine_.” – the alluded young man replied, monochord in all his voice inflexions, dead eyes, while getting up swiftly, his features carefully schooled in a neutral, old reliable Poker-Face.

He was _dying_ to lay out his little adventure that had evolved into a very potential ally interest with the Courier Six and her little ragtag group… but he waited patiently for his Lord to continue.

Patience was something Vulpes was good at.

**“Anything else that I should know?”** – was the awaited question, the man’s voice darkening with underlined warning – **“Any _other_ report I _should_ be receiving _right now_?”**

Oh, yes. Despite the dark promises hidden behind his Lord’s words should he found his report… _lacking_; this was, undoubtedly, Vulpes’ stellar moment for sure.

“_Meus Domine…_” **_(1)_** – he savored the few seconds Caesar’s eyes squinted as Vulpes’ heart lashed within his ribcage in anticipation – “The Courier Six of the Mojave Express has been successfully contacted… and she has shown great interest in keeping me among her companions.”

The _Imperator_ cocked slightly his head, light brown eyes studying him with intent.

**“A chick, then.”** – he murmured, not entirely displeased, but already putting at work his brains’ inner gears – **“Does she knows who you _truly_ are, or are those rumors about two bullets and brain damage true?”**

“She did remember me from Nipton _quite_ well, _Domine_.” – Vulpes replied, not knowing why saying that pleased him so much – “Yet she wishes for me to stay by her side. She even invited me inside the Lucky 38 and paid my services with this.” – he added, raising his left arm occupied with _his_ Pip-Boy.

The older man’s brows raised. Oh, yes, Vulpes got his attention now, he was clearly impressed.

**“What _‘services’ _are we talking about, Inculta?”** – the way he had questioned and the amused undertone a telltale sign of what he _assumed_ had happened between the two of them.

Vulpes repressed the sudden need to roll his eyes. Put two parties of the opposite sex on an equation, and here’s the _inevitable assumption_.

Plus, New Vegas and his Frumentarius’ line of work didn’t help. At all.

“Helping her to recover her old device, _Domine_.” – he deadpanned.

The _Imperator_ blinked.

**“Come again?”**

So, Vulpes had went on explaining his little adventure with the girl… leaving the embarrassing parts conveniently aside, of course. Caesar didn’t need to know how incredibly _clumsy_ and _naïve_ his Head of Intelligence had acted while being in the company of a girl. That could lead to _unwanted assumptions_ again but, this time, those very _assumptions_ could end backfiring in a pretty _nasty_ way.

And he had already whipping marks and a stiff back for a whole lifetime to last, thank you very much.

That very report had taken momentarily to a pressing matter regarding the missing Chairman leader and the Intel Vulpes had unearthed from the Artificial Intelligence known as “Yes Man”.

**“So, the piece of shit thinks he can come here and start tinkering with the machinery at the Weather Monitoring Station under my very fucking nose, huh?”** – Caesar scoffed – **“Let him try. Coming from a rat of such caliber, I expect nothing less than an _incognito_ infiltration attempt. The guards will be informed about this possibility and then, Lucius will do the honors to our guest.”** – he snorted, his attitude saying all about his thoughts on the matter – **“Let him believe that he can enter Caesar’s territory without an invitation and remain _unscathed_.”**

A shudder of pleasure, then envy, travelled down Vulpes’ spine. Oh, he would _kill_ for being the one doing the honors…

However… perhaps it was for the best that Lucius would be the one performing it. At least his interrogation session would be, if not bloodless, cold and methodical in its entirety.

For if Vulpes got his hands on the worm… he would _enjoy_ tearing him apart, limb by limb.

Just the same he had enjoyed tearing open the _Serpent’s_ throat.

**“Alright, so the infamous Courier Six, who happens to be practically a _child_ from what you explain, buys your act.”** – the _Imperator_ stated, pensively – **“I can see the potential, Vulpes… but what about her allegiances?”** – he leaned forward, the heels of his hands resting over his throne’s armrests – **“Do you think she can be _indoctrinated_?”**

“As a _woman_, no, _meus Domine_.” – the Frumentarius replied, tone even, indifferent mask set upon his features – “She possess knowledge and an intelligence far superior of, if you permit me saying so, practically _any_ veteran officer under your orders, thus being, when it comes to mental capabilities even with her brain damage, literally above almost _any_ man inside the Legion.” – he reasoned – “She’s also a girl who has experienced advanced forms of civilization, unlike our women, who knew nothing beyond their tribal customs.” – that _stung_ to say, but necessity here overcame pride – “I don’t think she would accept any other deal that doesn’t come with side benefits, respect and total freedom for her and her allies, who she cherishes very dearly.”

**“Does she strike you as the power-craving type?”** – the _Imperator_ questioned.

“I wouldn’t say so, _meus Domine_.” – replied Vulpes – “She’s still too young to know what power truly is and, even if she did, as far as I can tell from my experience with her, she shows a very nurturing, caring nature that always would first appeal to words rather than physical violence.”

**“A diplomat at heart, then.”**

“Yes, _Domine_.”

The older man pinched his chin, pensive.

**“Well, I’ll be damned but color me intrigued.”** – he admitted after a while – **“If she’s half the genius you’ve described to me, the Legion must have her. One way or another.” **– he conceded, to the younger man’s much relief – “**Do you think you can lure her to be at our side when the Second Battle for The Dam comes, Vulpes?”**

“I can only but attempt it, _Domine_.”

**“Good.”** – the _Imperator_ nodded, pleased – **“Promise her whatever you deem best and keep her interested by any means. You hear me, Vulpes? By _any means_.”** – he added, a very significant look on his eyes – **“She’s a girl, and girls usually harbor _hopes_ and _fantasies_, if you know what I mean.” **– he punctuated – **“If you have to play out the part in those fantasies, you do it. If she says red, then it’s red; if she says blue, then it’s _fucking blue_. There is no better advantage over a woman than to _ensnare_ her into her own nonsense. I hope you have already learned that during your experience on the Strip.”**

An angry surge of violence clouded momentarily Vulpes’ mind. He was a tool, a tool he could bear to be used in warfare, in demoralization, in exemplification, in infiltration, even in theft… but why did his job had always to be more channeled towards plain _prostitution_?

Something probably had shown on his eyes, because Caesar’s expression hardened.

**“Do it and, should you succeed in your mission… the boy is yours.”**

Vulpes felt how his world, suddenly, started to spin.

Lupus… he had tried to obtain his custody several times in the last year since he had gotten sight of him on the training grounds… to no avail.

Even if he was one of Caesar’s Commanders, his rank meant nothing when it came to children’s custody regulations. Vulpes wasn’t married, and unmarried men weren’t allowed to have children who weren’t theirs under their custody for evident reasons.

If homosexuality was already severely punished under Caesar’s rule, pedophilia was even a more serious affront.

To put a child in such a risk was to not just tarnish his normal development as a _tool_ within Caesar’s army, but to invariably sentence the offender to death, thus wasting _yet another valuable tool_ in the process.

The law was there to avoid such risks, and no exceptions should be made.

Vulpes was aware of what such an offer, coming from Caesar, implied. But he couldn’t care less.

If he had to _whore_ himself and to be regarded as a _pervert_ to obtain his little brother’s custody, fine.

Caesar got a deal.

A deal he began to honor when he arrived at the Hound Master grounds almost as soon as he abandoned Caesar’s tent and had taken the portable capsule with him from the hands of a guard he had left it with previously.

“_Ave_, Vulpes Inculta!” – the aforementioned Hound Master, a raven-haired man in his early twenties, saluted him nervously when the Frumentarius stopped before him.

“_Ave_, Antony.” – Vulpes saluted as well, omitting purposefully the other’s man rank, his eyes dead as well as his voice inflection – “I came here to claim the brain of your most loyal dog.”

Antony gave him a confused, although clearly scandalized look. One of his many, recurrent ocular tics started to show.

“A… a brain?” – he asked as if he hadn’t heard it well – “From one of my dogs…?”

“From your _most_ _loyal_, _fierce_ dog, specifically.” – Vulpes repeated, eyeing the large female mongrel calmly sat by the Hound Master’s side – “Maybe Lupa would do.”

“L-Lupa?” – the Hound Master repeated, putting himself unconsciously between the albino and the dog, the tic on his eye worsening – “What for?”

Caesar’s Head of Intelligence squinted intently. He wasn’t there to nurse Antony’s sensitivity for dogs. He also hated to sacrifice them, but Lupa was old for a Legion mongrel and her reproductive stage had vanished long ago.

Besides, he couldn’t think of a better candidate to appeal to the Courier’s needs for Rex. He had interacted with the canine several times and Vulpes could tell Lupa could be fierce but also tender as well.

“If you _must_ know…” – he replied coldly – “… Her brain would be placed inside this capsule I brought with me.” – he added, raising the device in front of a dumbfounded Antony – “The intent behind all of this would be replacing a cyberdog’s defective brain.”

The Hound Master’s face visibly softened.

“Oh…” – he muttered – “Like the ones I've seen up in Denver? I know what you're talking about, and it would make Lupa immortal in a way.” – he seemed enchanted by the idea, his ocular tic almost vanished – “Would you… give her a worthy death at the arena? She has been a good dog. She doesn’t deserve going down in silence.”

Vulpes huffed impatiently. He had a lot to do and a long journey ahead to be losing more time with… fighting dogs on the arena.

But he ended doing it nonetheless.

Machete in hand, no armor. The rules didn’t matter much to him when, after a few scratches and a bit of show off, he sliced the animal’s head from its body in a clean slash.

The legionaries that had crowded around the arena to watch the match had hollered with blood lust when Vulpes grabbed the head of his fallen adversary from the ground and gifted the men with a dramatic victorious lifting, allowing the dog’s blood to pour all over his arm.

After that, he had abandoned the arena, prize in hand, to be received by an elated Lupus who, with their Instructor’s permission, had come with other kids to watch the match between Master Inculta and one of the Hound Master’s trained dogs.

The two of them had left walking side by side.

However, alone in a corner, eyeing the lifeless, headless corpse of his dog, his Lupa, bleeding over the soil, Antony’s ocular tics had returned with a vengeance and, with grief, he sought a victim to take off his frustration and sadness.

He found the ideal candidate in Melody, the ten-year-old slave girl who tended to The Fort’s Brahmin pen, when he saw that the dirty child was hugging an even dirtier teddy bear.

With the excuse that even the rags on her back were a privilege and toys were out of the question for lowly slaves like her, he took the stuffed bear and made sure to make the child witness of how he threw it to his dogs.

He wasn’t unmoved by Melody’s silent tears. The stupid child didn’t know how fortunate she was to be allowed to cry.

Unlike him.

Boys don’t cry. Legionaries don’t cry.

* * *

When Six, Boone and Rex had returned from their little excursion to The Tops, the animal was exhausted, the man looked pensive and the girl… the girl had simply avoided talking with everyone and had locked herself inside the Master Bedroom with an untouched box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes she had picked from the kitchen.

She was sulking, and _a lot_.

Not only her device’s Operating System had suffered an unwanted HUGE change, but since Yes Man had gotten hold of her Pip-Boy, it wouldn’t shut up.

She had written in a haste a few extra lines of code before entering the Lucky 38 to keep the AI silent while on House’s territory, limiting its communicative nature to the Pip-Boy’s chat. To be honest, she preferred leaving it that way.

And now, Yes Man was typing… _again_.

** _04:47 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

**_:D YES MAN D: _ ** _Wow! The new lines of code you have written for me are so smart! A bit restrictive, but smart nonetheless!_

Six wanted to facepalm herself. The AI was trying smileys and heart emojis to state how sweet the gambling it thought the current conundrum was. It was messing with _everything_ and it was giving her a headache.

** _04:48 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

**_:D YES MAN D: _ ** _I’m learning a lot with you! Benny wouldn’t allow me to leave his workshop and I’ve always wondered how the outside world would look like!_

Kicking off her boots and sitting cross-legged over the bed, Six put the box over her lap and stuffed a whole cake inside her mouth while she started typing as well.

** _04:50 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

**_Courier VI: _ ** _Like it?  
**:**_**_D YES MAN D: _ ** _It’s pretty impressive! Not that I have a base of comparison, but I find it noisy and colorful! So full of life! I like it very much!_

Odd. It was like talking to a _child_.

So excited, so giddy… so painfully inexperienced. Perhaps Benny hadn’t known just how good the woman programmer he had hired to develop Yes Man’s code had been at this.

Six really wondered where may come from a person educated enough to create a whole AI by themselves. She would enjoy very much talking with such a person.

** _04:53 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

**_:D YES MAN D: _ ** _You know, I’ve been sweeping all over through your Music, Movies, Images and Books’ Databases these months when Benny stole your Pip-Boy and I’ve learned a lot about human creativity! Your species is fascinating!  
_**_Courier VI: _ ** _You sound weird when you put it like that.  
_**_:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Why?  
_**_Courier VI: _ ** _Because you sound like you are some scientist and we are like a bunch of monkeys hollering in your lab.  
_**_:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Hahaha! That’s a very funny comparison!  
_**_Courier VI:_ ** _ It wasn’t intended to be funny. It’s creepy as fuck._

More emojis, this time embarrassed, blushing ones. Yes Man learned fast, she had to give it that.

** _04:59 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI: _ ** _You have to work on that “non-filter” problem you have. Sometimes you sound rude, awkward or just plain creepy.  
_**_:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Do I? Tell me how should I improve, then! :D  
_**_Courier VI: _ ** _For starters, don’t state obvious things or, if you want to make a point, do it as “gently” as possible. You know, without being so direct and taking care of the vocabulary you use. You tend to hurt sensitivities quite often.  
_**_:D YES MAN D: _ ** _Oh… I didn’t know that. I apologize! :(  
_**_Courier VI:_ ** _ It’s okay. I’ll tell you what you do wrong and you can build a database so your error percentage will be diminishing over time. Okay?  
_**_:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Okeydokey! ^^_

The second overly-sweetened cake fueled Six’s hyperactive brain when she thought about how bizarre her current situation was, chatting with an AI and giving it counsel like they were best friends ever.

Her social ineptitude to make friends was reaching new heights, it seemed.

That reminded her of _Zorro_ and she felt sad again.

** _05:06 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D: _ ** _Uh… I don’t really know what I’m talking about, but my code has certain protocols that discern changes in human facial expressions. That, coupled with your current cardiorespiratory metrics, informs me that you are experiencing a slight depressive breakdown.  
__Is something I’ve said or it is because of the mean messages two of your contacts sent to you over the past four years?_

What the…?

** _05:08 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Have you read my messages?  
_**_:D YES MAN D: _ ** _Yes! Benny didn’t know how to access to your Pip-Boy’s chat and he never asked, so I can tell you I’m the only other entity that knows of their existence!  
_**_Courier VI:_ ** _ That doesn’t make me feel better, Yes Man. My messages are private and you didn’t have the right to read them.  
_**_:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable! _ _:( _ _You already know that my function is to monitor Mr. House's data network and decode his encrypted transmissions, so it’s only natural for me to extend the monitoring to the device where I’m currently allocated.  
_**_Courier VI:_ ** _ Yes, yes, I get it. Why did you bring up that now anyway?  
_**_:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Oh, because if there’s my fault, just tell me what to do and I’ll try to be nicer and more forthcoming to you! ^^  
__However, if the problem are those two… My protocol detects a lot of grammatical and literary mean intentions behind their words. And their audio files have also a threatening feel to them. They are bossy and not very nice to you, so it’s probably good that you have not re-started conversation with them since you got your Pip-Boy back. They sound like bad influences! And you don’t need bad influences hindering your ascension to power or whatever other amazing plans I’m sure you have in mind! _ _:)_

Six’s eyes got suddenly filled with tears.

** _05:15 PM Tuesday, February 07, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Why do you cry? It is something I’ve said? _ _:(_

Six needed a moment to answer.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has told to me in a long time…” – she muttered while receiving a big ASCII text art shaped into a big heart from Yes Man.

She knew the AI was taking all of those traits and geeky stuff from Mandy’s chat… But she couldn’t care less.

If Yes Man would always choose the best option for her and that option was Mandy right now, she wouldn’t complain. This was the best she could ask for given the circumstances.

She still missed having a best friend to talk with so much.

* * *

“Please, do pass me the scalpel, Lupus.”

Fascinated with the methodical way that Master Inculta was using to peel off, one by one, the canine’s head layers of tissue and muscle to reach the bone, Lupus did as he was asked, watching how, aided both with his dexterous long fingers and a large set of tweezers, nails, hooks and knives of every possible size, Vulpes was leaving, slowly but surely, an almost clean skull over his work table.

“Wow!” – the boy exclaimed, delighted – “It’s sooo gory!”

Once he got the skull clean, Vulpes proceeded to gently prod between the cranial bones’ junctures. He didn’t want to sacrifice another good dog just because he needlessly butchered the previous’ brain.

With time, patience and skill, the Frumentarius finally managed to seize the block of gray matter from its hard shell in one piece.

“Do dogs think, Master Inculta?” – the boy asked upon seeing it.

“I would think so, Lupus.” – Vulpes replied while gently putting down the brain inside its due capsule, sealing it so the organ wouldn’t be subjected to any more deterioration – “This one in particular might continue ‘thinking’, as you’ve put it, even beyond the grave.”

“How so?”

“Because this brain is intended for a cyborg dog. Do you know what is that?”

“A machine that resembles a dog?”

“Correct.”

“_Ooo_. That’s so cool!” – the boy’s eyes were shining – “Do you think I could see it when it’s done? The cyborg dog, I mean.”

As Vulpes occupied himself with cleaning the table, polish the metallic instruments and washing his arms and hands, he pondered on Lupus’ question.

If everything went according to plan, the Courier would eventually end aiding the Legion, thus taking with her, if not all, most of her companions, including Rex.

He was sure the boy would love playing with the canine.

“If we are lucky.” – he conceded – “First, I would have to convince its owner.”

“Who owns a cyborg dog anyway?” – asked the boy, curious.

“A girl.” – Vulpes replied.

“What kind of girl?”

“The likes you don’t see at this side of the Colorado River, Lupus.”

“Is she a Profligate girl?”

“More of a Dissolute, I’d say.”

“Is she pretty?”

By Mars, not the kid _too_.

“If I manage to convince her coming here, you’ll judge with your own eyes, Lupus.” – he opted to answer.

Luckily, that was answer enough for the boy, who now looked excited at the prospect of seeing both a cyberdog and a free girl from the other side of The Dam. Even boys his age were curious about life beyond the Legion despite being told day after day that their lifestyle was the purest and most glorious of all.

He would like the Courier.

Once he disposed of all the gore, he instructed Lupus to help him getting things ready for his departure.

The boy had looked sad when he had learned that Vulpes would not remain another day, but he had quickly forgotten as soon as the Frumentarius had played some music with his Pip-Boy.

Vulpes had hated to say goodbye to him, but he had done it in the way of his people.

His _true_ people.

“_Fiel a La Jauría, hermano._” – he had whispered to the child’s ear once he had grabbed him by the nape, clasping softly his tiny back.

The boy didn’t know what those funny, odd-accented, words meant, but every time Master Inculta would utter them to him instead of bidding him _vale_, he felt immensely special.

Many other boys teased them orphans for lacking a name and parents to call theirs.

Master Inculta was too young to be his father… but Lupus didn’t care. He treated him like family.

So, Lupus didn’t feel like an orphan anymore. He had a secret name; he had a secret family to call his.

In his innocence, not wishing to depart, the boy had put his tiny arms around Master Inculta’s torso and had squeezed.

However, under his touch, the young man had tensed.

Suddenly afraid that he might have overstepped his boundaries, the boy had quickly undone his hold on the other to, immediately, being surrounded by a larger pair of chalky, fibered arms that had returned his embrace.

Lupus had never felt so happy.

* * *

On_ Zorro’s_ sixth day of departure, Six hadn’t been able to sustain herself from remaining quiet inside her room teaching Yes Man through the chat how NOT to fuck it up in a conversation, so she had pestered both Vero and Cass to accompany her on an “exploring tour” inside the elegant, yet somehow shady Ultra-Luxe.

She had disguised her interest with some “girls’ afternoon” excuse. However, even if that hadn’t been exactly a lie, her true motives had steam from other reasons.

Monetary reasons Robert House had promised to deliver if she went on a… _discrete investigation _about those rumors around the poshest casino in the entire Strip.

The man had paid handsomely for her last work on The Tops, so she had complied.

She had had a very fun time when the three of them had dolled up: Vero had been the one choosing the outfits, Cass had helped to make Vero and Six giggle hysterically with her crass humor as she had taken a swing of her whiskey bottle while helping with the general shaving.

Six, proud of the small knowledge she had gotten while on her little adventure with _Zorro_ at The Tops, had been the one in charge of the makeup.

“I’m so sorry you cannot come, Lily.” – Six had said with an apologetic face while sitting on the supermutant’s lap as she had been helping them with the hairstyles – “But I’m afraid those guys at the Ultra-Luxe would… not take kindly having a woman _your size_ standing taller than the most fearsome Brahmin Baron around there.”

**“It’s alright, dearie.”** – the big granny had answered as gently as her booming baritone voice had allowed her – **“You little girls have fun. Grandma will be fine taking care of the boys here.”** – putting a dainty pink bow on Six’s head with astounding dexterity given the size of her bluish fingers, she continued – **“Play fair and square, show those fine people how well-educated you are…” **– when she had finished, she had put an enormous index finger over Cass’ already reddened nose, adding – **“And no whiskey, Rose, dear. You wouldn’t want to embarrass your little friends here, do you?”**

The redhead had snorted.

“Okay, Grams. I’ll bear that in mind.” – she had given the supermutant a playful wink – “No promises, though.”

This way, twenty minutes later, they had gotten inside the elevator, Boone’s fixed look to Cass met with a nod by the redhead, and the three ladies had disappeared.

In February, weather after lunch in the Mojave was far pleasant than any other time in the year… which meant that you still have to wear sleeveless dresses outside but not breaking a sweat for just… well, _existing_, thank you very much.

Six wore her white and pink flowery dress as it was the only one that fit her slim body… but, this time, instead of her beloved military boots, she had unearthed from the Master Bedroom’s wardrobe a pair of small black Mary Jane flats that were her size.

Veronica looked all sophisticated with a long sleeveless white formal dress and short heels… while Cass had opted for the excess and wore a _femme fatale_ low-cut red shiny dress that hugged her figure like a second skin with a matching pair of high heels.

Three different women in three different life stages wearing different styles to attend the same casino. They had to concede that the attention they were getting from the drunken NCR young soldiers – male and female alike – was, if nothing, well-deserved.

Cass had to even punch one of them when the audacious one had attempted to get a feel on her ass.

“Hope the stupid motherfucker hasn’t ruined my manicure.” – had been her casual commentary when they had gotten inside the Ultra-Luxe.

Once inside, briefly dazzled by such polished, clean-to-a-fault splendor, the three women frowned in unison when a masked man in a dark tuxedo had welcomed them with a complicated flourish to immediately ask very politely to surrender their weapons.

Besides the mask, white and golden, that covered all of the man’s face, his hands were covered by white gloves. That coupled with his languid, affected voice had activated red lights inside Six’s brain.

Behind him, the rest of the personnel attending clientele looked like carbon copies of each other: while men would opt for wearing strict black and neat short gentlemanly cuts, women were dressed in long, stylized white formal dresses while presenting either high buns or variations of the same wavy, carefully groomed, haircut.

Every last of them wore white masks and white gloves, every last of them presented a rigid body language as they served drinks or dealt hands over the Blackjack tables to the clients.

Even the very air had a heavy touch of lemon pledge, expensive tobacco, and cologne.

Those aromas reminded Six of Burke so much.

She repressed the visceral, panicked reflex action of turning heel and run to the exit door without looking back.

She had remained petrified during the exchange while Cass had made use of her bold feminine wiles to make the man’s inhuman posture falter briefly. After that and a few less one-handed guns later, the three of them had navigated through the lobby and Casino Floor to end sitting at the fashionable bar at the center.

“What do you mean by _‘ten caps a glass’_?” – was Cass’ incredulous exclamation when she ordered whiskey to the bartender – “What of the rest of the bottle?”

“Madam, surely you understand.” – was the composed, although slightly snotty answer she received – “This is the _Top Shelf_, and the drinks cost twice as much during happy hour, but they draw twice the attention, too.”

“Bullshit. You’re fucking with me.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that would be the least of my intentions to you, madam.”

However, before she could take the discussion further (thus making an embarrassing show out of it), a masculine, thick-accented voice interrupted.

“Serve these fine ladies whatever their hearts’ content.” – Desperado cowboy hat, dark brown suit and groomed white beard were the first things Six noticed upon turning her head, taking in his attire’s pristine condition, golden cufflinks and brown tan. His presence spoke of wealth, though no sophistication whatsoever. His cologne had a spicy, musky undertone that reminded of sand, smoke and sweat – “And leave the goddamned bottles over the counter.” – he didn’t say _‘please’_ or _‘thank you’_ when Cass, Vero and she got what they asked, flashing a stream of caps the bartender didn’t bother to count.

A Brahmin Baron through and through.

As if her body had become a coiled spring about to jump, Veronica had tensed and Six’s hand had found hers under the bar counter when Cass had engaged the man in a conversation almost as soon as she had gotten a full bottle of the most expensive whiskey ever in front of her. An elegant glass with three ice cubes followed suit.

“I know a fellow cowgirl when I see one, beautiful.” – were the man’s words, his tone rumbling and slightly husky as Cass had leaned over the counter, flashing shamelessly how low the cut of her dress went down – “Not Vegas or even these piss-posh shits can take away the sands and desert fire from you. Taking away your spurs doesn’t mean that they remain less sharp, and I know what I’m talking about. Name’s Gunderson. Heck Gunderson.”

Cass had accepted his hand and the grip they had exchanged had been strong.

“That’s been one of a _Heck_ first impression I’ve seen in a long time.” – the redhead joked amicably – “Almost following close enough to this girl’s here.” – she added, pointing with her eyes to Six – “Ever heard of the Courier, Mr. Gunderson?”

Thanks to Rose of Sharon Cassidy’s cunning, soon, after a few words’ exchange, the three of them had gotten access to the Brahmin Baron’s exclusive Penthouse Suite to end relaxing inside the pool that came with the accommodations. Swimsuits and all.

Apparently, Mr. Gunderson’s son, Ted, was missing since yesterday first hour in the morning. Hearing the Courier’s name had been like the answer to his problem, an answer of possible help if _Hurricane Heck_, as he had told them many people called him, had caps enough to afford it.

“My boy, Ted. He was right by my side.” – the old man lamented, still bold enough to sip on a bourbon bottle while allowing the warm, relaxing waters of the pool embrace his wrinkled body, the cowboy hat and loose swimpants sticking to his skin – “I didn't leave him but a minute. I told him to stay put while I talked some things over with the White Glove folks.” – he sighed, taking yet another swing to his bottle – “He never was one to stay tied down to a spot, though. Gets that from his mother.” – _that_ last one had been revealing enough to disclose the old man’s inclinations in pursuing younger women. Not that Six could truly blame him for it, today Cass looked like a goddess – “Got most of my staff out looking for him now.” – he added, nodding to one of the many bodyguards that stood silent and _armed_ around the pool – “I'd be out myself, but I keep hoping he'll show up back here. Course if he does that, I'll whup him till his skinny hide turns to leather for putting me through this. But that don't mean I wouldn't be grateful.”

Lounging amidst the relaxing vapors, the three women listened. Veronica wearing a white one-piece swimsuit and nursing a fruity cocktail with an _actual_ lemon slice in silence, Six, in a smaller version of said white swimsuit, was practically sinking in the discolored duck floater she had picked the very instant she had seen it sitting alone in a corner while Cass, ever the redhead in red, wore a triangle bikini and kept her long legs crossed over the floater in a precarious equilibrium as she kept sticking her reddened lips to the whiskey bottle.

The spectacle couldn’t have been more bizarre, but the Courier was truly enjoying herself.

If reluctant at first when the man had suggested they took their conversation to a more private place, to her delight she had discovered that, while Gunderson had only eyes for Cass, he was even more interested in hiring their services as private investigators.

Guess Mr. New Vegas’ advertising campaign wasn’t that bad after all.

“You realize that this is the Strip, don’t you, Mr. Gunderson?” – Six had asked cautiously, the chilly Nuka Quantum between her fingers shimmering eerily bluish amidst the steam – “I wouldn’t dream insinuating things but… is your son legally an adult? Maybe he has taken a fancy on one of the girls at the Gomorrah and…”

But the old man had laughed humorlessly.

“You think I would forbid my boy having some fun with gals while hanging on Sin City?” – he shook his head – “He hasn’t run to pay his way on hookers, I assure you. He’d wanted a gal to pass time, I would have hired her myself out of the newest batch. One cannot be careful enough they don’t pass you the clap or worse.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like his father arranging his dates?” – Six suggested again, voice composed but kind, not wanting to enrage the man by, out of a tongue-slip, make him believe that she though him blind to the obvious. The tone was always important when dealing with transactions.

However, the man had leaned over, his left eye almost a milky blue, signaling the formation of an eye cataract.

“Look, I gather you’re pretty young and don’t have a grasp on how we men think and all, but I know my boy enough to know if I should be worried or not.” – he gave her _that_ look, patronizing. Old people always thought much of themselves, noble few exceptions aside, like the funny _Chupacabra_ man who was all bark and no bite back on Dinosaur Motel Village, bless his soul – “And I am. Something’s feels funny about them White Glove folks, and I’m willing to bet till my last brahmin that they’ve got shit running over that Members Only area of theirs. Real hard to trust folks like that, bowties, canes and creepy masks. Couple of them show their faces and that's who I do my business with… or _was_. I don’t like my boy missing while I don’t fucking know _where_ I’m throwing my lasso.”

After that and a bit of more questioning, the old man had already paid for their time handing them a copy of the Penthouse Suite key, encouraging them to eat, drink and swim at their leisure while they concocted a plan. He came back to the main lobby and casino followed closely by two bodyguards to keep his eyes vigilant just in case the boy suddenly appeared over there. He left another two men around the Penthouse Suite and a few M&A 9mm pistols and ammo enough to aid the three ladies in a possible firefight inside the Ultra-Luxe.

Fucking badass gentleman ever.

“Gotta admit it, Cass.” – Six conceded while sipping on her bubbly, fluorescent soda. Cass’ display had given her perfect excuse to search thoroughly the Ultra-Luxe in and out without having to state out her affiliation with House to her two companions. Not yet. And Boone had sworn to keep the secret for now – “When you look for work, you aim for the good stuff.”

Cassidy laughed, raising one elegant foot, toenails painted in deep carmine, in a very Pin-Up Girls’ fashion.

“Thought slipping that juicy slice onto that old cowboy hat wouldn’t hurt.” – she said, winking playfully – “You’re not half bad either dealing with diplomatic stuff, Six. Very formal and nice. Consider a career in Politics when all this shit with the Legion fuck-faces ends. I bet Kimball would crap his pants having you opposing his candidature.”

Aaron Kimball. Born in 2233, the man was a former war hero and the current president of the New California Republic. His insistence on defending Hoover Dam had kept NCR troops in Nevada for years.

Yet another “tribe-pacifist” who, in _not-at-all_ Caesar’s fashion, liked to assimilate tribals into NCR Government imposing, instead of exemplary punishments and Spartan-like training for his troops, taxes and Old World’s legal system and ideals.

That had been how much Intel she had gathered for Burke before the man had decided to contact Kimball.

Since their lost gold reserves while the NCR-Brotherhood War on the sixties had raged on, the frontier’s faith in the Republic's currency considerable drop had been one of the very reasons Kimball had ended accepting Burke’s economic backing. Not payable in specie, fiat currency at their 40% against the common caps or at the 10% of Caesar’s denarii could only endure so much.

“And what’s with the long face, Lil’ Riding Punch?” – asked Cass jokingly, swimming to position herself in front, still whiskey bottle in hand, of the silent Scribe – “Aw, you ain’t jealous of the Heck-Man, do you?” – she said, approaching her very tempting rouge lips to Veronica’s, who got at least three tones scarlet than her usual slight tan – “Wanna kiss and make up?” – she added, sultry in a funny, unserious way.

“D-don’t be silly!” – the flustered Scribe spluttered, attempting to gently shove the redhead out of her way when Cass’ hands grabbed her two wrists, yanked Veronica towards her chest, and the two of them went underwater.

Six reacted almost immediately grabbing both Cass’ already almost empty whiskey bottle and Vero’s cocktail, endangered at its precarious position at the pool edge. She wouldn’t want for the life of her have beverages spilled on the clean, warm waters.

“Not fucking funny!” – Vero protested once she managed to emerge from the water – “You’ve ruined my makeup and hairdo!” – she added, pointing towards her short hair sticking to both sides of her face and her ruined mascara running dark tears down her face.

However, as Cass emerged from the water as well, even with her looks ruined, she still managed to appear breathtaking, her long red hair pooling around her freckled shoulders like a mermaid.

Or, at least, that was how Veronica saw her.

And her heart gave a painful pang when said mermaid got closer and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek as her arms encircled her and started dancing in circles. She hadn’t slow-danced with another woman since… since Christine…

“Silly, cute Lil’ Riding Punch.” – Cass sing-sang – “Water or not, you look pretty a bunch.”

“Tease.” – Veronica replied, embracing her as well and taking as much as she dared of Cass’ sudden tenderness.

“Always.” – replied the ex-caravaneer, pinching both her cheeks – “Let’s get us some towels. I’ve taken a comb, some lipstick and mascara with me in my purse. I’ll redo your looks and you’ll redo mine’s. Deal?”

Veronica nodded happily and both of them got out of the pool while Six remained behind, a warm smile upon her lips. That had been the cutest thing ever coming from Cass, who usually tended to be quite the opposite of the word _‘delicate’_.

Sighing, hating to go back to business as her two companions prepared themselves again, Six gulped down the rest of her Quantum, hoisted herself from the cute duck floater and sat at the pool edge.

“Yes Man.” – she murmured – “Load me a full map of the Ultra-Luxe’s inner compound…” – she hesitated a millisecond, not sure why she would bother with an AI’s feelings… if it _really_ had them, that is – “… Please.”

Her Pip-Boy’s screen flickered awake and the smiling interface welcomed her.

** _02:44 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D: _ ** _With pleasure, yay! :D_

* * *

After yet _another_ extenuating journey across the Colorado River utterly ignoring Lucullus when the older man had started sputtering frisky shit about how unattractive and outrageously _expensive_ to purchase were the female slaves both at the Fort and the ones waiting for exportation at their destination for his legionary stipend, Vulpes had departed from Cottonwood Cove almost wishing the tall ferryman would one day bit down his tongue until he cut it.

He had met many dense slaves and legionaries during his serving years since he was a full legionary – never to count the Profligates, who sometimes reach ridiculous levels in plain stupidity – but Lucullus… if there was an unerring word to define him, that was simply and utterly _dumb_.

And each time he had to suffer the unavoidable man’s company when he had to travel to the Fort, Vulpes convinced himself furthermore that the only thing that held inside that head of his was nothing but thin air.

Lucullus - who had pertained to the Fredonian tribe, one of the firsts Caesar had conquered more than thirty years ago - was that type of individual who, despite being well into his thirties, got Legion’s guidelines so drilled inside that brick over his shoulders that he would answer any other discourse that didn’t fit with his limited ideas with dull diatribe-regurgitation, incapable of seeing beyond what he had been taught since he was a toddler.

True to Caesar, legionary through and through. If you are Legion and differ, your ideas are _dangerous_; if you are non-Legion, give me cause, _Profligate_.

In truth, Vulpes knew he should pity the lone man, unfit for the battlefield as he was too old already to be a no-rank foot legionary under a Decanus’ orders, unfit for other jobs inside the Legion that required having an actual brain to perform them, unfit for company as his role constrained him within a rowing boat.

But the Bull’s Fox, if anything, had little sympathy left for those he deemed inferiors to him. And Lucullus was one of such a kind.

Because of that, moody like the cat that wasn’t allowed to eat the canary, he had abandoned the boat with the Pip-Boy’s earphones on and had stomped his way to the West to Wolfhorn Ranch during a good half an hour with them still on. Beethoven at full volume.

_That _had been, yet _again_, a rookie mistake that may have costed his own life if he had been older, _ergo_ less agile, and hadn’t counted with the advantage of V.A.T.S.

It was getting dark, and he hadn’t heard the clanking noise their trashy, spiked armors usually made, giving away their positions easily, but he had jumped the instant a bullet had landed barely inches away from his left foot.

Vipers.

With Beethoven’s 9th Symphony _“Ode to Joy”_ filling his ears, Vulpes had found himself without any ranged weapon whatsoever on his person but his trusted chainsaw that he had taken care to sharpen that very morning.

He had received a bullet on his right bicep, another one had grazed his left temple, and three more that had ended embedded on his armor’s chestplate.

The offenders had been three, two men and a woman. Vulpes had laughed out loud like a madman the very instant, after entering V.A.T.S. to balance his chances on lethal strikes, he had butchered one of the males and the other two remnants had looked at him as if he were one of those psychotic junkies that had their systems so full of chems that didn’t distinguish between pain and pleasure.

“Motherfucking freak!” – the other man had exclaimed, attempting to knock him down with a rusty pipe while the female kept evading his slashes by a hair’s breadth.

Vulpes had earned quite the collection of bruises, a bleeding nose and, possibly, a concussion if the buzzing inside his head and the blurring sight coming and leaving at irregular intervals were any symptoms.

But he had left the battle and the bloody remains behind _invictus_ and a few extra .308 round ammo and caps richer.

And he would have felt jubilant if not because of the woman.

The instant he had gotten the upper hand to her, pinning her to the ground with one boot crushing over her chest and the blade of the chainsaw at her gullet, she had spat him on his _pteruges_ for she couldn’t reach his face.

“All hail the True Goddess Hecate and his Daughters.” – she had hissed through clenched teeth, blood oozing from multiple gashes that would eventually have killed her – “Long live the Hounds of Hecate.”

Acting out of instinct rather than cold calculation, Vulpes had separated her head from her body in a horrified reflex act.

When he arrived at Wofhorn Ranch half delirious from his concussion and half blind for all the blood that had gathered on his left eye from where the bullet had grazed him, Vulpes had dug out several cooked painkillers he always kept hidden on a rusty First Aid box that he kept under a specific loose floorboard for his and his trusted men to have at their disposal. Either he or them would resupply the batch should these would run out.

He injected himself with two Stimpacks and forced down his throat a full bottle of Hydra, which also made him nauseous.

Antivenom, cave fungus, Nightstalker blood, and radscorpion poison. Those were the ingredients needed in order to cook such foul beverage straight out of Hell that helped numbing the pain and accelerated tissue regeneration.

Vulpes went stumbling to the pitiful cot at the back of the house, taking with him a metallic basin, two bottles of purified water, a pair of tweezers and meters and meters of relatively clean cloth. He spent his good fifteen minutes, between blurry sight and trembling pulse, extracting the bullet from his bicep and another good twenty minutes undressing himself to clean the wounds and hematomas to bandage them.

Once he finished, trembling and nauseated, he laid down turning on a fetal position while he repressed the growing need to vomit until any physical sensation, finally, diluted into a numbing pulse.

He knew how incredibly bad were the nightmares and, in some cases, slight hallucinations one got when gulping down a full bottle of Hydra, but he, likely, wasn’t going to get any further with a concussion this severe. He needed the Hydra to settle its due effect on his organism… if it didn’t kill him first.

But he didn’t want to get asleep. Not like this, wrecked, stark naked, likely highly stoned and _alone_.

Fumbling clumsily with the Pip-Boy, unable to even raise the arm, a thin trail of pinkish drool escaping his lips, he played in a soft volume some of the Courier’s meaningful songs.

_Talk to me… Mercuria._

Soft, soft small fingers grabbing on his own…

_Do unto others what has been done to me…_

Small, small dainty feet tiptoeing carpeted floors softly…

_Do unto others what has been done to you…_

Short, short hair black as ink, eyes as coals…

_I've got my hands bound…_

Sweet, sweet pink skin warm and freckled under his fingertips…

_My lamb and martyr, you look so precious…_

Unconsciousness claimed him without knocking on the door, agonizing heat gathering inside the ill-conceived metallic roof, making him think his brains were being cooked inside his skull, just like the ones he kept inside that capsule.

The rabid dogs of Hecate had crossed the Colorado.

* * *

“Holy fuck!” – Cass’ exclamation almost went unnoticed amidst the ruckus shooting and exploding tiles were creating around – “Bitches hired merc shit to keep on the low their dark crap!”

The motherfucker had already killed the poor dark-skinned sod that had called the investigator at 04:00 PM to the steam room on the Ultra-Luxe’s Bathhouse.

“I cannot get a clean shot!” – Veronica bellowed, covering behind the very wall that was getting thinner by the minute under bullet-storming – “Does he have infinite ammunition or what?!”

Oh, that’s right: before Ted Gunderson’s disappearance, a young bride had went missing inside the hotel a few weeks ago and the groom had decided to hire the services of a private investigator after getting systematical, although polite to a fault, denial of facts from Marjorie, the official founder of the White Glove Society.

“That’s a Viper!” – Six exclaimed after attempting to shoot the man who, armed with a kickass 10mm submachine gun, was, very effectively, cornering them inside the stupid steam room, and the three of them were getting dehydrated and airsick by the minute – “The son of a bitch has hired a Viper to do his dirty work!”

Mortimer.

The sick fuck had seen through Six’s lies when she had claimed to share certain… _culinary interests_ with him and his followers, a small percentage of the White Glove Society who, under Marjorie’s very nose, was gaining more adepts by the day as Mortimer sought to reconduct their diet towards their old tribal self: cannibalism.

While clearly ignorant of her associates’ dark needs still poisoning their name, Marjorie’s adamant refusal to acknowledge their inner problem had gotten Cass, Vero and Six engaging in a firefight twice on the same day: first at the private investigator’s (who, as well, had fallen prey to Mortimer’s schemes) bedroom, then on the steam room.

And they had managed to stay alive thorough the first one just because the three of them had acted in perfect synchrony when they had turned over the queen-size bed to use it as a barricade when the two creepy masked tuxedo guys had resorted to bullet-fighting them as they had discovered that their stupid canes had proved insufficient against Veronica’s fists.

Were they had been wearing tactical armor and bulletproof vests as they usually did, these stupid confrontations would have got over with in no time. Shame that, to blend in, you had to wear heels and fabric-thin dresses that were goddamned unsuitable for fighting.

The day was getting shittier by the hour. And it wasn’t even dinner time.

Six missed Boone so much right now. He would know _exactly_ what to do.

After the umpteenth rain of bullets that were already perforating the walls that separated them from the Viper, Six raked her brains in search of a strategy, something that could…

_Zorro_ getting higher than the disappeared Empire State.

The thought had come unbidden to her, recalling the pupils of his magnetic blue eyes growing the size of platters and the crazed, hyena-like laugh that had emerged from his throat the instant he had risen from his place behind the bar counter wielding a pistol.

She could emulate a swift drug-induced trip by recalibrating V.A.T.S.

Though she hesitated, a few seconds later when she heard Veronica’s pained groan and a scarlet stain started to spread across the bodice of her white dress, Six had already made up her mind.

It could give her a _seizure_ once the rush would fade out… or worse, a _cerebral embolism_.

But they were going to end like colanders if she didn’t do something real quick.

“Yes Man!” – she exclaimed – “Calibrate V.A.T.S. System by increasing electrical pulsations on an 8% through ulnar and median nerves and 10% increasing for the radial nerve! Redirect a 5% blood irrigation to the upper side of my body as well to my brain!”

** _04:15 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Wouldn’t that take sensitivity from your legs as well as increase in a 40% percent the risk of a heart attack and 37% chances to develop __a cerebral embolism? Not to speak about_

“DO IT!”

** _04:16 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D: _ ** _… Alrighty. If you say so, your plan must be a really good plan, then!_

It did so.

Everything went too fast, unlike the previous occasions she had used V.A.T.S. and her time perception had considerably slowed down.

It was like watching a movie in _fast-mo_ where dialogues and sounds got a shrilly high-pitched quality and the action got ridiculously hilarious by looking at everything through the lens of mute B&W cinema.

And she was a part of such a comedic play.

Giggling with the drunkest squirrel-like voice ever, Six threw herself to the floor in front of the steam room’s entrance and, as she kept falling, she targeted the assassin’s head as many times as her adrenaline-induced brain’s synchronization with her index finger allowed her.

Vipers, even though heavily armored, _never_ wore helmets.

She hadn’t even touched the ground when the head of the assassin exploded into a bazillion pieces of gory goo, shiny and bright red as the colors around Six became more vivid.

She was out before feeling the hard slam against wet tiles that sent her small figure sliding two meters to the left until her cranium connected to the wall.

* * *

Vulpes awakened amidst darkness sweating and trembling.

Scarce furniture around him seemed to undulate like blazes of an invisible fire, wooden walls looming over him ready to swallow, masticate and spit bone and tissue.

Rows of boards became telephone poles and the wind howling between crevices became the lament of countless men.

_Self-serving… corrupted…_

Clutching tickets, silent crying, each cared only for himself.

_Profligates… Degenerates…_

‘Loved ones’, what a joke…

_Butcher them… one by one…_

Those _worms_… they were _incapable_ of feeling nothing beyond _pleasure _and _pain_. The _latter_ he would deliver it to them with a great amount of the _former_.

_The small boy hadn’t been a boy at all…_

He was, however, _capable_ of feeling a great many things.

_Should she would have appeared before him as who she truly was, he would have enslaved her…_

He was capable of _love_.

_Now, however, he would bow to his knees and beg her that she talked to him. That she gave away her message…_

And he was also capable of _hate_. So much _hate_.

_Preach to me, Mercuria… Give me your sermon._

The Fox howled for all the creatures of the night to hear, a testament of his lost tribe. A pack of slaughtered dogs. _Dimidio_. Brother against brother.

The door of the house creaked and, before him, a figure quickly came to kneel by his side.

A human body with the face of a reptile. A biped Nightstalker.

_“Caderet mortuus… Anguis...”_ _**(2)**_ – he hissed, taking the human chimera by the throat.

* * *

“SIX!!!”

She could hear both Cass and Vero’s voices calling for her.

But her body wouldn’t obey.

Her skin felt slick with cold sweat, her throat dry, the back of her head sticky, her nostrils filled with steam and her tastebuds pearled with a slight metallic tang.

_My, my… quite the predicament have we gotten in, Birdie dearest, aren’t we?_

The man without a name, a red right hand wielding a silenced pistol.

“Has she…?” – she could hear trembling in Cass’ voice, unable to bring herself to finish her own sentences – “Her head… has the fucker…?”

A pistol wielded by a blood-stained hand pertaining to a man without a name as well without a soul.

“No, it’s just a tiny gash.” – Vero’s voice sounded more composed despite the pained undertone that came with her superficial wound – “See? Although… her unresponsiveness doesn’t seem right to me… A concussion, perhaps?” – a hand waving in front of her – “Six, can you hear me?”

She could. But the very thing she couldn’t do was _communicating_ it to them.

_Tsk, tsk. Vegetative **again**? Wouldn’t have it been better to die and finish with your suffering, little bird? Not that your passing will be mourned, mind you. Mourn is for the weak. And there is no room for weakness out in the Wasteland._

“We need to take her out of here. It’s not safe.” – said Veronica. Her voice, once again, the voice of reason – “Help me carry her on piggyback.”

_Your little white-haired acquaintance knew. And that is why he has abandoned you. The rest will follow soon, it is just a matter of time, I am afraid._

“It’s my fucking fault…” – in-between a growl and a sob, Cass would be always the tough cowgirl who wouldn’t shed a tear. Too many lost friends had taken away her tears long ago – “If I hadn't led the old man… If I had shut my stupid trap…”

“This _isn’t_ your fault.” – Six couldn’t agree more with Vero’s firm statement – “We all took this job without complaining. We assumed the risks. We now deal with this too.”

Vero wasn’t as tough as Cass was. But she would make it up for her. Only for her.

As she felt how the two women dealt with her dead weight, her left forearm buzzed, sending small electric shocks to her heart. Yes Man was CPRing her.

Six only hoped, besides staying alive, for a nice, soft bed.

* * *

Who had been the _jackass_ that had cooked Hydra this unbelievable _sloppy_?!

Inculta had been damn lucky this time. That, or his system was so incredibly _inhuman_ like many whispered to his back that he had been able to ride through the radscorpion venom’s excess without dying in the process.

If it wasn’t because he had _howled_, Atticus would have never entered Wolfhorn Ranch to find him on the floor half-delirious.

The fever was slowly lowering now, but keeping him warm and hydrated had been an exhausting task and Atticus only wished he would awake so he could recover some sleep time. Forty hours attending an ill person was far more tiresome than the veteran would have suspected.

No wonder the healing women at the Fort always looked so impossibly tired and worn.

Sighing as he listened to the occasional tirade the Master Frumentarius would mumble, an incoherent mixture between Latin, English and… something that Atticus thought was Spanish? Maybe?

Confirming that the young man was fluent in, at least, three different languages, gave an idea to Atticus of why he had been selected as the Head of Caesar’s Frumentarii besides having defeated the previous one in fair combat.

Even though he was still a child.

Atticus himself wasn’t really much older than him, but six years marked the difference between a _man_ and a _boy_.

No wonder Alerio felt so insulted having to answer to a _child_ ten years younger than him. After all, he had been the one Callidus Anguis had selected as his future successor when the man would decide to test his luck against one of the Praetorians to earn his place amongst Caesar’s Personal Guard.

However, knowing how much of a liar Anguis had been, Atticus wouldn’t be so surprised if he had kept postponing facing Lucius’s fist on the arena till the last consequences. The Master Frumentarius would have perfectly grown comfortably old while Alerio would have kept waiting, growing old and weak as well.

Inculta’s challenge had been a wave of fresh air amidst Frumentarii ranks. Many had put bets against Anguis as he had been… less than _popular_ when it came to how he treated his men.

Inculta was remote and cold… but he wasn’t deliberately cruel or unjust with his men.

In fact, many of them held great respect for him despite his age and his lack of experience. For them, he was the best replacement for Anguis they would have hoped for.

He even rewarded some of his men by gifting them wives.

Women were precious and quite _expensive_ possessions even veterans like Atticus could barely afford with his basic legionary stipend.

True you could bed the many slaves reserved for _common use_ for the troops… but it wasn’t the same as having a woman of your own. A well-fed, healthy, non-battered, pink-cheeked woman you could _name_ and _dress_ in beautiful dresses instead of filthy slave rags, a woman you would cherish as your most prized _possession_ besides the children she would bear _only_ for you and _nobody else_.

Atticus had dreamed often what would be like having a wife of his own. He had attempted once or twice to seduce free women that inhabited their lands, as legionaries were able to wed them… as long as they _consented_.

But he had found quite soon that, while extremely polite and helpful, free Legion women tended to literally _flee_ whenever a legionary expressed interest in them.

It didn’t help that, quite often, their mentality differed a great deal about how a husband should treat his wife. Free women had this strange idea about demanding the same respect from their husbands they gave to them.

Atticus didn’t know where these ideas might come from as Caesar’s laws seemed to suggest otherwise.

Anyway, he hoped that, by having saved his hide plus the juicy information he had for him regarding Alerio’s two-faced ‘loyalty’ by bribing safehouses keepers such as himself to keep the Fox conveniently watched just in case he made a mistake bad enough to earn Caesar’s ire, Inculta would be ‘thankful’ enough to gift him with a wife.

With such a thought dancing inside his head, he patiently took care of the feverish Frumentarius while he envisioned a pretty petite blonde he had seen while on his last visit to the Fort.

She would regard Atticus as her savior and she would love him to the end of her days, that was for damn sure.

* * *

Pacing briskly from one end on the kitchen to the other, Boone’s frown was getting deeper by the minute.

The girlie and the other two ladies (yeah, even the tumbleweed, he reminded himself, was a _lady_) had departed an hour or so after lunchtime… and hadn’t returned yet.

Right now, it was a quarter past EIGHT in the afternoon and the ex-sniper felt how his nerves grated in a very _tangible_ fashion as he detected how his left eye was twitching from time to time.

Too many hours out and all he could think about was the girlie’s safety. Was she okay with those two? Was she only having fun or they had gotten her drunk?

And if she was truly drunk right now and not wanting to return for him to see her in such a state… which he would have a _few words_ with _those two_ about… was she being kept safe from stalkers?

Were the Scribe and the Cowgirl good enough to keep her safe?

What if those creeps from the White Glove Society were giving them trouble? What if those rumors around them had gotten the girlie in danger?

He couldn’t fucking _conceive_ how _calm_ were both Raul and the doctor as they kept themselves occupied with _reading,_ of all things!

He couldn’t stand this inaction, this useless waiting while it was clear as the day that the girlie had left accompanied by a pair of irresponsible adults that would likely drink themselves to oblivion instead of keeping an eye on her!

Grabbing the doctor by his medical overalls, he put the man, half a head taller than himself, on his two feet while he grabbed a pair of walkie talkies and planted one of them in front of Raul’s… lack-of-a-nose.

“We’re leaving.” – he informed to the bored ghoul – “Should the girlie or the others come back, contact me with this.” – he added, pointing to the device.

“You know those things have a limited signal range, right, _Señor_ Boone?” – the ghoul asked, unmoved – “You get outside the Strip and I will not be able to communicate with you.”

“Don’t care.” – the sergeant replied – “Keep trying if I don’t answer.”

“_Muy bien._” **_(A)_** – nodded the ghoul, returning to his robotics reading, hoping to learn more about ED-E’s malfunction. He wasn’t giving up just yet.

Arcade, who had been silent throughout the exchange, started accosting Boone with questions.

“Why, exactly, do _you_ need _me_ to accompany _you_, and what for?” – he asked, following the ex-sniper to the elevator, Rex already in tow.

Not answering immediately, Boone turned to the Main Bedroom’s open door and called for Lily, who immediately arrived carrying not only her Vertibird Blade, but also Boone’s sniper rifle and a laser pistol for Arcade.

“Thanks, Lily.” – he said, taking his rifle from the hands of the Nightkin.

**“You’re welcome, dearie.”** – she answered cheerfully – **“Are we going on an excursion?”**

“Yeah.” – Boone confirmed, this time to both the supermutant and Arcade – “I’m not trusting those White Glove folks around the girlie, but I don’t want to dabble into their territory without making sure she’s alright and I'm just reading too much into this, so we’re going to the Old Mormon Fort.” - he turned to the blonde Follower – “I need YOU to convince Julie Farkas to lend us a computer terminal. I’ve got the girlie’s new Pip-Boy ID so I can contact her to know if she’s okay.”

“Okay…” – Arcade replied, taking the laser pistol from Lily’s enormous hand – “But why not using one of the terminals from the Guestroom?”

The girlie had been pretty specific about this: if House got a hold of her device’s ID, he would learn of the existence of Yes Man.

And while Boone wasn’t a liar by definition, he was loyal to a fault.

“Would you trust the entire web inside House’s territory?”

The answer, for Arcade, had been obvious: not a chance. None of them trusted those terminals beyond learning basic hacking commands (those who wanted to learn, that is) and playing some videogames from time to time.

“And we need Lily with us because…?”

Boone’s green eyes darkened behind his sunglasses.

“Just in case I decide we should pay the Ultra-Luxe a visit.” – he replied before getting inside the elevator.

Arcade followed with a sigh, not liking one bit where all of this was taking them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LATIN:
> 
> (1) - "My Lord..."  
(2) - "Drop dead... Snake..."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> SPANISH:
> 
> (A) - "Very well."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: chapter was getting too long, so I've splinted it in two ^^ Next episode will take me a while to finish, though.
> 
> Nowww... Character Development Time again! This time, with missions in-between but with different approaches. You see, I'm not buying that Cass is plain brainless and Boone has a granite block for a head. Their dialogue In-Game shows that much, but the fandom usually depicts them the other way around and that's not fair. Sure they're not the brightest candles in the church, but they aren't, by any means, dense. I hope this shows here.
> 
> Arcade will be developed in due time, don't you worry, but now these characters are the ones stealing the action, so...
> 
> About Lucullus and, more importantly, Atticus' approach on the women topic... he's not a reliable narrator as he sees things from his angle and the way he has been educated. I pretend to show here just how legionaries see women: it isn't that they despise them, it's more of a wrong and INFANTILE approach to something they don't see anything wrong with. And it still happens in our society, so I'm not that far-fetched. True that some of them are nasty, but you can find assholes everywhere you go. Not just East of the Colorado. Hope is not offensive.
> 
> And yes, Vulpes is not an angel at all. Very Evil Karma, remember?
> 
> And... yes, Van Buren content as well. I simply couldn't resist.
> 
> Also, thanks a bunch for the new Kudos!!!! ^^
> 
> Hope you're enjoying the trip! Cheers! :D


	10. Mama, I'm coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains children's murder and mistreatment. You know the drill: if you're sensitive to these topics, either don't read or proceed with caution.

* * *

_The stale air that permeated the scrapyard office had been the first thing she had noticed upon entering it._

_A dusty sepia tone coming from the four office desks at both sides of the structure, each of them illuminated by actual working desk lamps, had given the casual onlooker a false calming sensation._

_But she hadn’t felt calmed at all._

_The burning sensation of a hard palm behind her squalid nape and the slightest of pushes had her two feet walking to the least illuminated zone ahead. A desk far bigger than the others. The rumbling typing coming from the four young employees at both sides like the tapping of fireants’ legs, coming to devour her and her tongue._

_For she couldn’t speak._

_“Ah, Mr. Burke.” – the voice of an old man coming from the gloom had greeted them – “Back again so soon? Excellent. Oh, how we do love enthusiasm in our employees!” – after that, darkened blue eyes coming from the face of a heavily wrinkled, bald man had studied her with interest – “And who’s this? Another prospect of an employee for our firm?”_

** _“Indeed.”_ ** _ – the nameless man had answered, giving a light squeeze to both her shoulders as he positioned behind her, impossibly tall and impossibly strong for a fourteen-year-old – “**With great pleasure, I bring with me a protegeé of mine who shows great promise.”** \- leaning over her like a vulture over carrion, he had added - **“Birdie, dearest, say hello to Mr. Daniel Littlehorn, the owner of the firm that may provide you with the information you seek.”**_

_“A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Littlehorn.” – she had answered as he had trained her to do. Polite and measured. Lifeless and automatic as a robot._

_The old man had smiled. And his smile could have rivaled with the likes of a snake. Behind him, darkened and slightly faded by time and a nuclear Armageddon, a copy of William Bouguereau's _‘Dante and Virgil in Hell’_ hung from the wooden wall. Twisted limbs of two naked men wrestling as one bit down the other’s throat like a rabid dog. That picture had given her nightmares in the next couple of weeks ahead._

_“Information, you say?” – the old man had questioned, his lips, thin and cruel, still smiling – “Oh, my. I am afraid that any provided services have a cost.” – leaning over his desk, he had punctuated – “My dear girl, are you sure that you are willing to pay the price?”_

_“This is a hitman business.” – she had answered, the fingers over her shoulder digging on her flesh a touch painfully as she kept talking – “You give me a target, I deal with them. I bring you proof that they are dead, you pay me with information.”_

_After a brief pause, Littlehorn had laughed in earnest while Burke’s gravelly voice had addressed her in his deceitfully gentle, warning way._

** _“Now, now.”_ ** _ – he had said like a father would chide a mouthy daughter – **“What have we spoken about manners, Birdie?”**_

_She had briefly felt ashamed, then a petty sense of childish pride as she knew she had managed to bother him had washed over her._

_Even if what she had desired most was to have his approval. Such twisted was their symbiotic relationship._

_“Oh, do not chastise the girl for being frank, Mr. Burke.” – the old man had said, still laughing – “At least, she brought a smile to this old man’s lips.” – joining the tips of his wrinkled hands under his flaccid jowl, Littlehorn had continued – “Tell you what, little Miss: at the moment, we do not need yet another… ‘hitman’, as you’ve put it, in our business.” – watching the crestfallen expression of the youngster, he had added - “However, we are in dire need of an agent on the West.”_

_“What for?” – she had asked, curious._

_“Gathering information, mostly.” – the man had explained – “A report for another report, words in exchange of words, if you will. Besides, you will be earning some caps along the way, as your cover would be courier job.” – she had seen malice in those cold eyes, but she had been desperate – “Interested?”_

_She had looked up to meet Burke’s steely gaze, searching for permission._

_But his expression had informed her that he already had known that the mention of such a job would eventually come up. He had set everything for her at his convenience._

_He wanted her on the far West, learning Intel about the new flourishing civilizations that were rising there. Undoubtedly, the possibility of a business opportunity._

_So, she had said yes and, a week later, Littlehorn & Associates had sent her to California through the trading caravans that crossed Dixie Republic, then the Sequoyan Confederation until they had reached Legion territory, where water and food supplies and construction materials were the most quotable selling goods besides gold._

_She would speak very little with everybody and she would deliver letters and parcels._

_While Burke would hold her leash from a distance contacting her with and agenda of his own through the Pip-Boy, Littlehorn & Associates would contact her through couriers scattered across the territory, her reports would be met with reports of what the old man would unearth, a sealed letter for another sealed letter. None the wiser except her._

_Her rewards translated into answers had started pouring, and her old unit sold as slaves would meet their merciful ends by her hand. A soldier honoring her comrades and their pledge to the One True Banner._

_She would be Burke’s captive and agent, but she still had her orders._

** _You have your orders, soldier._ **

_And then, a year later, when Aaron Kimball had signed his contract with the Devil in exchange for funds, she had delivered a package in the name of the NCR to a place called Ashton._

_That way she had been witness, for the third time in her life, how right her Big Bro had been when he always used to say that war never changes._

* * *

When she opened her eyes again, her Pip-Boy signaled 09:52 PM.

And her head hurt like Hell. She could feel bandages around it.

She had been out for more than five hours. Not bad considering her little shock-induced “trip”. And she could even string two consecutive thoughts together. Nice.

Let’s see if she could move an arm.

“Hey!” – she heard Vero’s voice by her right – “She’s awakening!”

What a pair of sweethearts, Cass and her, they have put her in such a nice, comfy bed…

“Gotta tell the bitch.” – Cass’ voice was more distant… and angrier – “Let’s see if she keeps her pretty shit-eating, snotty attitude when she learns this from Six’s very fucking lips.”

Vero sighed when the room’s door slammed with more force than necessary.

One of the Scribe’s rough, warm hands went to grab the smaller girl’s when she tried to move.

“You big drama queen.” – she said, her voice soft and fond as she stroke Six’s knuckles – “You’ll give us a heart attack one of these days if you keep doing stuff like this.”

The girl’s fingers squeezed lightly Veronica’s. The Scribe’s waist had been bandaged and wasn’t even blood-stained.

She was glad Vero was okay.

“Where… are we…?” – she mumbled, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Marjorie has lent us one of the hotel’s suites for you to recover.” – the Scribe replied – “She caught us midway carrying you to Gunderson’s Penthouse Suite and asked what had happened. Cass then proceeded to call her names I didn’t even know that someone could come up with.”

Six managed a weak laugh. That was the Cass she knew and loved.

“Then, after threatening her to expose her shit to the public, the woman has been nothing but agreeable.” – continued Veronica, a tired smile across her features – “She has even extended to you an official White Glove Society membership.” – leaning over her, she winked – “All the expenses on the house.”

Six scrunched her button nose as if she had smelled something awful.

“Don’t order… any Brahmin Steak or… any other ‘meaty’ thing, m’kay?” – she managed, unbelievably tired even despite having been asleep for so many hours.

“Nah, don’t worry. It has been nothing more than Desert Salads and all the available cocktails on the menu.” – the Scribe replied, animated to see her communication abilities and motor synchrony hadn’t gotten scrambled so far – “You hungry?”

“A Nuka… please.”

When Veronica returned from her swift trip to the small fridge over an elegant small auxiliary cart with wheels (an apparent recent implement to the other than that ordered to a fault suite), she helped Six to sit as she gave the girl small sips of the soft drink until she was sure that she could sustain it with both hands by herself.

Cass didn’t tarry at all when not ten minutes after storming out the suite she had returned yanking Marjorie from the woman’s left wrist with her.

“No need to be so impolite!” – the older woman protested, pulling her abused wrist against her chest while rubbing it. Her face looked paler and gaunter than usual.

“Fuck off.” – was Cass’ eloquent answer – “And be glad I’ve not kicked your sorry ass till the moment.” – the redhead squinted – “You talk to her and, depending on your answers, I’ll decide if I should restrain myself or not.”

When the official founder of the White Glove Society brought herself in front of Six, the girl could tell there were uncertainty and mortification in her tired eyes. Good. That would make her collaborative enough to accept any kind of deal Six would demand out of her.

“Two disappearances… five corpses, two of them blatantly assassinated… two firefights… and an injured customer who happens to work for Robert House…” - Six puffed and panted, but got all she wanted to say in the _exact_ tone she wanted to say it – “I don’t know about you, Miss Marjorie… but I’d say that your excuses, finally, have run thin to the point… nobody believes them anymore.” – she was angry, angry of not having been able to uncoil this mess sooner; talking things down, the way it should have been from the very start. At the moment, she knew she hated the Three Families of the Strip so much: the Chairmen for _obvious_ reasons, the Omertas for ensnaring their workers with drugs… and these guys, for being an adamantly unapproachable lot of prevaricators – “Mortimer sing-sang this afternoon like a nightingale… and his _culinary tastes_ differ _greatly_ to the spotless image you are trying to sell to your customers…” – she took a deep gulp of air, willing herself not to be so out of breath – “Also, it evidences that he’s not alone in this… _return_ to your _tribal roots_.” – fixing the older woman with a stare, she pressed – “Which leaves us to one question: what are you going to do about it?”

As soon as she had finished her discourse, she saw the awed expressions of her two companions, the _even more_ mortified expression of Marjorie… and she felt utterly _disgusted_ with herself.

Those words and the very way she had expressed herself… _everything_ was a result of Burke’s influence.

The Nuka-Cola she was drinking, suddenly, seemed less appetizing.

Then Marjorie went on sputtering a litany of apologies, of half-hearted possible explanations - each one of them Six counterfeited as soon as they abandoned the woman’s mouth – of excuses and more excuses.

In the middle of it, at some point Six’s attention had diverted from Marjorie to her Pip-Boy, where a message alert she hadn’t noticed before was furiously blinking.

An unknown IPv6 address.

** _08:59 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e:_ ** _ This is Sergeant Craig J. Boone to Six. Asking for status confirmation. Waiting for a response._

And many more.

** _09:05 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e:_ ** _ I repeat: this is Sergeant Craig J. Boone to Six. Asking for status confirmation. Waiting for a response._

** _09:05 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e:_ ** _ Damn it, girl. Please, answer._

Boone…

** _09:15 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e:_ ** _ Sergeant Craig J. Boone to Six. Do you receive me?_

The poor man was so worried… because of her.

** _09:30 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282_ **

** _fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e:_ ** _ I’m coming for you, girlie. Hold on._

“S-shit!” – she gasped, interrupting Marjorie’s tirade – “Boone… Boone is coming!” – she extended her arms towards Veronica and Cassidy – “Quickly! Help me get up!”

The two women did as she asked.

“Where?” – the redhead asked.

“To the lobby!” – Six gasped.

And so, the three women left the suite with Marjorie in tow, still muttering excuses between her teeth.

She had been unbelievably lucky at reading the messages just in time… because, when they reached the lobby, the man who had confiscated their weapons at the entrance was being pinned by the throat against the wall by Boone’s muscled forearm while Arcade was attempting to talk down the nearing security staff armed with ornate canes as Lily unsheathed her Vertibird Blade, ready to jump forward and make a mess out of the elegant casino. Rex bared his fangs.

“I’m asking just one more time.” – Six heard Boone saying – “Two women and a girl entered this building around one in the afternoon. A redhead and two brunettes. The girl has a Pip-Boy strapped to her left forearm.” – his muscle extensors dug deeper into the other man’s gullet, asphyxiating him – “Where. Are. Them?”

“H… how f… frightfully uncouth…” – the greeter gurgled – “I… I'm af… afraid I m… must insis…”

“Try me again, asshole…” – Boone hissed – “… And this motherfucking Red Beret would be the last thing you never…”

“Boone!” – Six exclaimed from the other side of the room.

As if a spell had been broken, Boone blinked from behind his sunglasses, let the poor sod fall to the floor and made his way across the guards with his rifle and Rex in front of him and Lily behind with Arcade sputtering apologies abound.

Once he got to Six, she told Cass and Vero to let her go and she went straight into the ex-sniper’s arms.

“What have they done to you, girlie?” – he asked after seeing the bandages and feeling how much weight she was putting onto him as if she couldn’t sustain her own body.

“Long story.” – she replied, immensely happy to have Boone there with her, feeling his reassuring strength cocooning her like a warm blanket – “And we have so little time until midnight.” – sustaining herself with the man’s help, she turned to Marjorie – “We need a discrete, out of earshot place to discuss how to proceed tonight. Far from Mortimer’s action radius, if possible.”

Marjorie pressed her lips together; her already grated nerves were now on edge of a huge breakdown. This scandal… people disappearing and dying, a ruined bedroom, an NCR soldier threatening her staff, a filthy animal drooling on her floors… and a supermutant had gotten inside her hotel!

This would be her ruin.

However, if anything, Marjorie still was a true lady through and through and a gracious host.

“If you please, do graciously accompany me.” – she said, tone even, courteous as every member of the White Glove Society ought to be… even in the very face of distress.

To her much relief, everyone did as requested while her staff, after a few unvoiced indications, returned orderly to their assigned places.

Mortimer would pay for this, the _scoundrel_. And _very_ dearly.

* * *

_Three painted marks across the face, howls crossing the valley, spears in hand, silent footsteps in the cold sand under the moon._

_That night, he had convinced Dingo and the twins to accompany him on a walk to the lake so they could swim and play._

_He used to swim a lot when the sun was down. Sometimes, he would even graze a fish, its slimy scales funny to the touch._

_That night, he had been tasked to take care of Perro as his mother would attend the birth of the little fox’s new sibling._

_The wise women said it would be a boy. The white small fox would finally have a full blood-related sibling._

_Not that he didn’t love his other half-siblings, but to have a brother of your own…_

_“Con cuidado.” – he gently warned Perro as he taught the four-year-old how to swim, his tiny hands holding the infant by the waist – “Patalea para propulsarte.” – he would do so as an example – “Así, ¿ves?” **(1)**_

_Perro would howl softly, imitating how the tribe’s warriors communicated between them, and do as asked._

_Perro had been born with a blemish… of a sort. Not having developed the ability to communicate with words, his eyes had been always distant, an alien pattern all over his features, too many smiles, too much drooling._

_His mother was the chief’s Primera Esposa, the mother of his older brother and Dingo. The little fox’s mom was Segunda Esposa and the deceased mother of the twins had been Tercera Esposa._

_One father, three wives. Seven siblings, six boys and a girl. One heir._

_And one child who had been named after the shame he had brought onto the chief’s family. A Dog for a pack of wild animals, tamed and sweet, a disappointment that would never be anything more than a liability._

_But he was a brother, nonetheless, and the little fox loved him the same he loved the rest._

_That night, they had arrived late at the encampment expecting a reprimand from their parents. Lately, their father and the tribe’s warriors had been tense, the wise women whispering omens inside their tents filled with charms. They spoke about another tribe, larger than any of the adults had ever seen, stronger than a pack of rabid Yao Guais._

_Their nightly excursion had been off-limits… but he and his brothers had loved to swim so… and Perro had been half asleep on his arms, peaceful and innocent. Not enough reprimands could have robbed him of the peace his vulnerable sibling gave him when he had been this trusting and happy resting between his tiny arms._

_However, when they had arrived, silence had welcomed them._

_The tribe’s three diagonal marks had been substituted by large red tapestries hanging from poles ominously, the tents had been sprayed with dark, liquid red. The soil had been irrigated with red._

_And the corpses… so many corpses covered in red._

_Charred, maimed, disfigured… some of them lying with empty eyes on the ground, some impaled on their own spears… the rest nailed to tall trees that sported only three branches: one vertical, two horizontals._

_The air had been heavy and had made his sensitive blue eyes sting._

_But he hadn’t cried._

_Perro had cried for him. And that had been how the men had heard them._

_Dressed in red armors, some of them with their faces or their eyes covered in extravagant gear. Feathers, black and red._

_And the language… foreign, harsh, commanding… the likes of he had never heard before._

_They had exchanged a few sentences between them and one of the faceless men whose features the children had not distinguished from under closed helmets had approached them._

_He had examined them one by one, pinching with curiosity the little fox’s tiny arms and pulling a bit his wavy hair, laughing like thunder when he had discovered that the pale discoloration wasn’t any sort of painting._

_Then, he had rested his sight over Perro._

_Wordlessly, he had taken him from the small fox’s arms and, before the child could react, had crushed the tender skull under his boot._

_But the little fox hadn’t cried._

_Dingo had howled loudly with grief. The scariest sound any of his present siblings had ever heard. With only eight years to his name, he had launched to the covered red man’s face, taking out his helmet and biting him on his nose and clawing his eyes._

_More laughing and barking came from the other men, the exposed red man had put Dingo to the ground and had kicked him until the kid had stopped moving._

_But the little fox hadn’t cried._

_The twins, however, had been at the brink of tears, so he had put a hand to each of their mouths so they wouldn’t make a sound._

_“Haced lo que yo haga.” – he had instructed to them in a whisper – “Hiena, no se te ocurra abrir la boca.” **(2)** – he had warned, knowing very well just how hot-headed his sister would turn at the wrong moments._

_The red men had taken them by their smalls wrists and had conducted them to an esplanade. The remnants of their tribe had been there, women and girls apart. Boys and young men in two rows, facing each other._

_Out of pure dumb chance, they had mistaken Hiena for a boy and had put her, her twin and the small fox facing their respective opponents._

_The little fox’s opponent had been taller and older than him, he wouldn’t raise his head to meet the other’s eyes._

_“En el día de hoy, se os concede la oportunidad de vivir para servir a Caesar y a su Legión, pues somos muchos y nuestra tribu requiere de hombres capaces con la entereza necesaria para soportar las vicisitudes que, día tras día, traen gloria, prosperidad y seguridad a nuestro augusto Imperio.” – a man, a man that, unlike the others, hadn’t been dressed in red had spoken. __He had looked almost as how the wise women depicted the Bomb People from __Back When. __His Spanish had been perfect, scaringly so – “No obstante, si vuestra mano dudara, vuestros golpes fallaran o vuestra voluntad flaqueara cuando os enfrentéis a aquellos a los que una vez llamasteis ‘hermanos’… caeréis en el vacío del olvido ya que pagaréis vuestra debilidad con sangre. Pues el olvido no es sino el destino que le aguarda al nombre de vuestra tribu, a vuestra ignorancia, a vuestras barbáricas costumbres. __La elección es solo vuestra.” – after that, he had raised a hand and had put his thumb looking upwards – “Que dé comienzo el _Dimidio_.” **(3)**_

_None of them had moved and soon, one of the women had been dragged by her long mane and, in front of the children, the Bomb Man had opened her throat like one would do to a gecko when you wanted to drain it out so the blood could be used for cooking._

_After that and the promise of many more senseless deaths if they refused to collaborate, the boys had taken their positions and had launched to one another._

_They would remember that day. They would always remember._

_He would always remember that, since that very day, he had found himself incapable of crying anymore._

_He would always remember the instant he had taken a stone from the dusty ground and had blindly hit several times with it._

_Broken tissue had become splintered bone and, under his bloodied tiny hands, he had discovered the face of his older brother looking at him with dead eyes._

_And the Fox had become a Wolf, the leader of the pack._

* * *

Riding through Hydra was always shitty.

This, Vulpes had known very well… but he had never experienced such an incredibly gut-wrenching hangover afterwards.

He would _kill_ one of his men. He still didn’t know _which_ _one_ in particular… but as soon as he got word about who had been the last _dick-for-brains Brahminshit asshole _who had restocked the medicine stash…

Whenever he was in a shitty mood, the usually polite and well-spoken Head of Caesar’s Intelligence would curse a lot inside his head.

He even sometimes came with quite inventive and utterly gross swearwords that would have put any Freeside junkie prostitute to shame.

He would never say them out loud… but when it came to thinking, he was free to conjure inside his mind whatever he _fucking damn_ pleased.

And now, his shitty mood was reaching new heights when he realized, first that he wasn’t alone anymore inside the ranch when he caught sight of a deeply asleep dark-skinned legionary over a chair… and second, as he peeked at the hour on his Pip-Boy he discovered… that he had been out three days. Or so the digital clock and calendar said.

Three days… three days lost. Three days he could have used to retrace his steps to Freeside, talk with his brother about the next course of action to take in Nelson… and then, rejoin the Courier and her motley crew bearing with him a brand-new brain for Rex.

Three days being tended by a safehouse keeper - most likely, because the guy wasn’t one of his men - for Vulpes could have died if the sticky sweat forming a rim all around his body on the dirty mattress was warning enough by itself. Fever and dehydration, and he could be perfectly have turned out corpse before the third day. He would _kill_ the _dimwit_ who had restocked the medicine stash.

Three whole days of delay on his work’s progress. That very work he believed so much in… although his faith in the Legion at the moment left plenty room for speculation.

The _Imperator_ was sick, or so had told him Lucius. But the man who had given him the thumbs up for his undercover mission had been the same man Vulpes had grown to get familiar with in the last two years… and to _fear_ all the same.

The same man who enjoyed toying with his subordinates’ minds.

**_“_****Vulpes ad portas_.”_** _**(A)** _– the man had laughed once when he had watched the most recent addition to his chain of command enter his tent. Vulpes would later learn that Caesar was as fond of Latin quotations as Anguis had been – **_“_Citius, Altius, Fortius. Et certissime astuti_.” (B)_**

_“Meus Domine…?”_ – the young man had but dared to ask, unsure how to take those compliments.

**_“Come closer, so I can take a good look at you.”_** – when he had done that, Caesar’s brown, hard eyes had lingered on him – **_“Hmmm. You wear your new uniform well… although I suspect you wore better and more willingly the blood of your revenge at the arena.”_** – the man had known. How, Vulpes would never dare to ask. His work had always been the work of an observer, never the one asking the questions. But Caesar hadn’t asked, so he had given away nothing – **_“What do you think, Lucius?”_**

The _Summus_ Praetorian had given the young man an undecipherable stare.

_“Faster, yes. Higher, yes. Stronger, perhaps.”_ – crossing his arms, he had added – _“Underweight, most definitely.”_

Caesar had roared with laughter at this and Vulpes hadn’t known how to react. Was this some sort of test? That, he could understand.

What he didn’t understand at all was the next question the _Imperator_ had asked.

**_“We shall remedy that in due time.”_** – he had given him a nod – **_“Humor me, _Summus_ Frumentarius: given the opportunity… what would be the last meal you rather eat before dying?”_**

Vulpes hadn’t understood the question or its implications, but his training had answered for him.

_“I would rather starve a full day than wasting limited time I could use to serve the Legion and resources another legionary with more time ahead could use instead of me.”_

Caesar had produced an angulous smile. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

**_“You’re a true piece of work, aren’t you, Vulpes?”_** – that had been what the _Imperator_ had simply commented – **_“Cold _calculus_ to a fault.”_** – up that, he had laughed humorlessly – **_“Truly, a worthy successor after the cold hide of the snake.”_**

Good answer? Bad answer? The young man could never be completely sure, but if two years under Caesar’s inscrutable sight had taught him something, that had been to keep his answers and his body language as neutral as possible, even more than when Anguis had been around.

Because from Anguis, ten lashes he could have expected… but from Caesar, there were worse fates than death inside his circle of trusted birds of prey. Lanius being the biggest and most gluttonous of all.

Not that it had been much better when the _Malpais Legatus_ had been in his place.

With that, forcing his mind to work again wading confusing memories while physical feeling came back slowly to his body, he managed to slide off the dirty mattress as silently as possible and he reached for his clothes and Riot Gear, proceeding to prepare himself for his delayed traveling.

The safehouse keeper stirred when Vulpes had been revising supplies he would take with him.

“_Ave_.” – had saluted the man, stirring up in his chair, clearly nursing neck aches derived from sleeping in a bad posture – “Up and dressed already, huh? Guess you have recovered fairly well from your earlier poisoning, Master Frumentarius.”

Vulpes’ shoulders had twitched slightly, still organizing supplies. The man was addressing him with a bit too much familiarity for his liking.

“Atticus, isn’t it?” – wild guess. There were actually two safehouse keepers with the same name in the Mojave Legion-controlled territory – “You have proved me of great service these three days.” – he paused, not wanting to give much more than it was truly necessary – “Well done.”

The man looked pleased to be recognized. This was a veteran, a nobody amidst hundreds of faces who had been put in charge of one of the most boring jobs the Legion had to offer.

An old, not especially bright soldier who hadn’t advanced in rank quick enough, just like Lucullus.

A _leftover_.

“Honored to serve our Head of Intelligence.” – the leftover replied, saluting him – “If there’s anything else I can be of service, just say the word.”

“Very appreciated, _Custos_.” – the albino replied, taking the Riot helmet to put it over his head – “But there’s nothing I require from a soldier of your rank right now.”

“Not even information about one of your men bribing us so we can have an eye on you, Master Frumentarius?”

That gave Vulpes some pause. The helmet, still midair, descended again slowly so he could turn his head and eye the safehouse keeper with a hard, questioning glance.

“Those are grave charges that can evolve into a very dangerous accusation, _Custos_.” – he warned, voice controlled and measured – “Do you have any _evidence_ that would suffice to back your words? If so, lay it before me immediately.” – he took a mild-threatening step towards the man to make a point – “Otherwise, I would advise caution with your next choice words.”

However, Atticus seemed unfaced.

“Besides the gold I was paid to follow you?” – this man’s attitude was starting to annoy Vulpes. Didn’t he know that such words could put him on a cross faster than he thought? – “Would the name Alerio suffice to give you some thoughts to chew on?”

Vulpes’ fingers twitched over the helmet’s smooth dark surface.

“I will humor you for a couple of questions more.” – he said, drawing words out – “Depending on your answers, I will decide if I should punish your audacity or not.” – he had asked for it. Nobody, and even less a low-ranked legionary, had the privilege of accusing a Frumentarius of treason without any proof and leave unscathed – “This being said, do tell me why I should believe the word of a safehouse keeper over the word of a Frumentarius.”

“I’ve been tracking after you since you left Freeside.” – Atticus replied – “Followed you down the 95 to our Raid Camp. Waited for your return at Cottonwood Cove while I entertained Centurion Aurelius of Phoenix playing chess and a hand or two of Caravan with him. You will also want to hear what the man’s hiding inside that fridge of his at the lonely sack all his men keep an eye on.”

“Enough.” – Vulpes hissed, annoyed and extremely conscious of what Atticus was making reference to. Centurion Aurelius of Phoenix was well into his forties and his tribe, the Kaibabs, had been famous for their cannibalistic inclinations. Given this, the Centurion had been absorbed when he had been practically a teenager… and old customs and _vices_ were hard to erase from receptacles old enough – “That only proves that you have been following me, thus making you _guilty_ of espionage against our very forces.” – he continued, annoyed at having been completely oblivious that one lowly safehouse keeper had been following him through the Mojave. Should the two of them had been in front of Caesar, the _Imperator_ would have laughed and, immediately, sent the two of them to be whipped, Atticus for his accusations, Vulpes for his outright _incompetence_ – “Now, do answer this: with what purpose did you take such risks? What do you intend to achieve?”

Once again, the Courier came to his mind, echoing her question back at Nipton, when his position as Caesar’s Greatest Frumentarius had been indisputable and his many thoughts, along with his painful past memories, had been firmly sealed.

The girl… since he knew her, he had been behaving erratically, overthinking things that hadn’t been meant for a second pass… questioning twice each decision he had been making through all these years.

And she hadn’t questioned him about his loyalties even once.

What was _wrong_ with him?

“I was paid to follow and observe you.” – Atticus replied, shrugging – “The intention behind it was reporting any given failure, anything that could be used against you so the interested, Alerio, would formally appeal to bureaucracy to attempt demoting you from your position so he can step in.” – he crossed his arms - “Not that I was going to follow his game for much longer. I know which battles I should pick and which I shouldn’t.”

“If so, why did you accept the money?” – Vulpes insisted, completely aware that his two rounds of questions had become three.

“I was in no position to refuse at the moment.” – the other man replied, aware of the same fact – “Such a secret is meant to be kept, not outrightly turn down. Should I have refused to accept Alerio’s money, he would eventually have found a way to silence me. You Frumentarii are good at that.” – he added, dark eyes fixed upon electric blue – “However, if it’s the mercenary fact that bothers you, I’m willing to turn over the _centum denarii_ he gave me.” – feeling for his belt, he untied his pouch, handing it to Vulpes – “Here.”

The Fox took the offering and weighted it. A hundred denarii were way too much money for a lowly _Custos_ to bear inside his purse in one go. Their monthly stipends weren’t _that_ good, and their mercantile profits were usually translated on caps, not denarii.

Too much money together, too many implications.

“Very well.” – Vulpes said, nodding – “I will expropriate this money so the Frumentarii’s arks can benefit out of it. Regarding you…” – he punctuated – “I am enlisting you as my private observer when it comes to Alerio’s _alleged_ treason. You will not be paid for your services, but you can keep whatever money you shall, _allegedly_, receive from him.” - it was important to highlight the word ‘alleged’ so the _Custos_ wouldn’t hold any delusions – “From now on forward, you are under test. Serve me well, and there’s no telling how far my gratitude can go.” – with this, Vulpes’ eyes darkened – “Betray me, and your punishment will greatly excel whatever petty revenge Alerio, _allegedly_, could have come with.”

Atticus nodded, slightly disappointed that rewards wouldn’t come easy but, in retrospect, he had to admit that his plan had been a bit flawed. He hadn’t expected that the Master Frumentarius would give one of his most bitter competitors the benefit of the doubt.

Well, anything for the prospect of that future wife.

“How I should contact you should I gathered further evidence or learned more about Alerio’s plan against you?” – he asked.

“You will _not_ contact me directly.” – Vulpes replied coldly – “In the next coming weeks, I will leave an agent on the Freeside who you are going to answer to. Within fourteen days, search for Gabban on The Atomic Wrangler after making your rounds and, _allegedly_, reporting to Alerio.” – then, switching to the nearest table, he took paper and a pencil, writing down a quick note – “But, before that, you are returning to Cottonwood Cove and giving this to _Cursor_ Lucullus on the dock.” – Atticus took the neatly folded note that simply read _‘To Summus Praetorian Lucius’ _– “Neither you nor him are allowed to read the contents of this note. I am being _totally clear_ on this?”

Atticus nodded, suddenly aware of the small trust vote the Master Frumentarius was giving him with this apparently insignificant mission. And making Lucullus the one to deliver the note to its true receiver instead of him told Atticus that this wasn’t a trap.

The Master Frumentarius wasn’t an unjust man after all.

Both bid their mutual _vales_ and, while Atticus’ steps took him East, Vulpes took the railroad track from the Highway 164 so he could reach Novac before it got dark.

He traveled fairly pissed off and every damn creature that had the bad luck to interpose in his way had ended filled with bullet holes.

He hadn’t reached Novac when a small sandstorm had caught on him when he had passed a Ranger post barely ten minutes ago.

Deciding that it wasn’t worth it risking his life with Novac away to another two good hours more walking and not a single cavern on sight, he retraced his steps and had ended crouching inside one of the many metallic trailers that acted both as barricades and watchposts for the Ranger Station.

He hadn’t done a single thing to bother the Rangers there, just wanting to shelter from the storm and nothing more… but he had ended, somehow, with five rifles pointing at his helmet when the sandstorm had cleaned out and the Rangers had gotten outside their main building.

“McCarran doesn't like it when civilians wander into military outposts.” – had been the dry warning he had received from a red-headed man that was holding his rifle a tad too close for Vulpes’ liking – “Be quick and state your business. Otherwise, hit the road.”

“I was only seeking shelter from the storm, officer.” – he said very carefully. Not for nothing NCR Rangers had been the toughest soldiers many good legionaries had come to confront on the battlefield… and too many had lost their lives at their hands. It wasn’t a wise move to piss off a single Ranger, less an armed group of them – “I didn’t intend to cause any trouble.”

“Says the guy with a Riot Gear and helmet he may or not have stolen covering up his entire face.” – the man replied, dryly again – “I don’t know you and I don’t want you here, so here’s how we’re going to solve this: me and my team here are gonna give you to the count of ten, to get your ugly, yella, no-good keister off our territory, before I pump your guts full of lead!”

At the count of _‘five’_, Vulpes had already gotten outside the post, running like no tomorrow awaited him as the Mojave night embraced him.

He would remember this encounter and he would mark the place on the map of his Pip-Boy, adding a small note.

_‘Ranger Station Charlie: exemplary lesson, full wiping.’_

* * *

“So, let’s see if I got this straight.” – Arcade’s small pen-lantern oscillated in front of Six’s dilated pupils as the man’s free hand was gently feeling her cranium, making her wince when he caught on the small bump – “You re-programmed a pre-War military device that feeds on your nervous system so it would accelerate your response time and reflexes to target a guy less than two feet away armed with a submachine gun that got you three corralled inside a steam room.” – when she winced again, attempting to escape pain, Boone’s arms and legs affianced their gentle but firm grasp around her as he was sitting with the small girl before him between his legs – “I wish I could say that I am surprised, but it would be a lie. Because I am not, Six.” – sighing, he turned off the small lantern and proceeded to fumble around inside a First Aid Kit that Marjorie had graciously lent them – “How many times do I have to stress the importance of not putting your life at risk unnecessarily to you? Do tell me so I can start right now with the repetitions until I reach the desired cipher that, for once, will insert basic common sense inside that stubborn head of yours.”

Despite how restrictive his posture was around hers, Boone’s warmth was right now a great consolation under Arcade’s hard stare. It wasn’t that the Follower was using a harsh voice tone… but each time she got a reprimand out of him, she felt like she was eight again and her Big Bro had caught her red-handed doodling over one of the Cadet Academy’s walls with a piece of chalk.

“Vero had been hit…” – she mumbled awkwardly, closing an eye when she felt liquid iodine and sticky bandages been applied to her bump – “The guy seemingly had ammo to last till the next day…”

Arcade huffed with exasperation.

“And you decided that the wisest course of action would be risking the correct functioning of both your nervous and blood systems so you could get an opportunity to shot back.” – he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm – “Everybody, please, let’s applaud again the wisdom of our underage leader here.”

“That’s enough, Arcade.” – said Veronica while standing behind the working doctor – “I think she has had enough for today.”

“No, I will decide when she has had enough.” – the blonde medic replied acidly – “Do you think you have had enough, Six? I will tell you what I think about having enough: either you end with a severe concussion that would render you vegetative at best, or that one day a bullet finishes what that first-class scumbag started at Goodsprings. One of those options would _definitely_ do _wonders_ to stop you from attempting any further _nonsense_, don't you think?”

“Arcade!”

Closing her eyes tightly, Six snuggled up against the firm granite that now had become Boone’s arms encircling protectively around her while the frowning ex-sniper gave the doctor a pointedly glacial stare from behind his sunglasses. Rex whined by their side.

Arcade sighed tiredly. Boone’s worries and paranoia had gotten the best of him in the last two hours since they had _run_ to the Old Mormon Fort, attempted contact, and had gotten back to the Strip, _running_ yet _again_ to be confronted by a situation that none of them could have predicted that very afternoon when the three human female components of their group had taken an apparently innocuous trip to the Ultra-Luxe.

Guess trouble followed Six wherever she went like a lost puppy.

“Okay, I shouldn’t have said that.” – he admitted, raising a tentative hand towards the girl’s short hair to set aside some pointy strands that had gotten on her eyes, his gaze first asking permission to her guardian, whose darkened sight was becoming frighteningly murderous by the second – “I’m being an asshole, this situation is becoming increasingly difficult and the last thing we need is old crap-sputtering me adding more wood to the fire. I’m truly sorry, Six.”

The girl opened her eyes slowly and directed him, speaking of the Devil, the most heartbreaking kicked puppy gaze the good doctor had ever seen.

How in the first place this small girl with a ridiculous stature and eyes the size of casino roulettes was leading a group of idealistic losers to greatness was beyond his comprehension.

But he, even begrudgingly, believed in Six. Arcade, disenchanted with his fruitless research with the Followers and life in general, had needed desperately something to believe in, and the closest answer he had gotten had been this tiny girl helping and distributing medicines and painkillers for free amidst the poor and needy; and her sweetness when it came to deal with troubled, shitty souls like his was, if anything, commendable.

She deserved better from him.

So, he allowed her to squeeze his ribcage in a forgiving embrace he returned awkwardly, though relieved.

Meanwhile, Marjorie, a mute witness to the general craziness around the group, stayed when they started to devise a plan regarding how they were going to infiltrate the lower levels at the Ultra-Luxe. She provided them with White Gloves’ clothing, canes for self-defense, and masks so none of her associates could discern between them and the rest. She also provided them with several copies of a master key meant for the Members Only area as they defined two groups: the first, with Courier Six at the head, would descend to the kitchens and, somehow, extract the presumably kidnapped Ted Gunderson before he became the main course at dinner.

The other, blessedly with the supermutant on it, would station at the various exits so Mortimer, the brains behind this unpleasant situation, if they managed to expose him publicly, couldn’t find a suitable path to escape.

Marjorie breathed a bit more easily when the troublemaking motley crew, once disguised as members of the White Glove Society, abandoned the hotel’s infirmary with the supermutant, luckily for her, becoming as invisible as a speck of dust.

Once alone with the happy panting from the cyberdog that had remained behind in favor of subterfuge, Marjorie frowned when she spotted the small pool of drool at the floor that had formed under the canine’s snout.

“Now, what are we going to do with you, hmmm?” – she asked, slightly chiding and immensely tired after the events that had unfolded throughout this day. Her head building an imminent headache when she thought about the mess that strange group would surely leave behind when everything will be over.

The animal’s answer had been an energetic bark.

* * *

Eleven days later, the Fox had crossed the Eastern Gate of the Freeside when lunchtime had been starting to weigh on his empty stomach.

He recalled Lily’s tender pancakes hungrily and pressed on forward amongst waves of people and the occasional pickpocket begging to break their phalange bones as soon as they got hold of other people’s purses while merchants hollered prices for their merchandise, mostly consisting on stolen wares, stinky fourth or fifth-handed clothing, repairman services and an assorted variety of homely-distilled liquors and meats of dubious sources.

The pungent mixed odors pertaining to rancid sweating, fried foods, stale waters and a general unhygienic atmosphere that seemed to claw at his skin even covered by his Riot Gear got Vulpes’ stomach in knots within the hour, making him regret that he had taken off his claustrophobic helmet in the first place.

Besides the overpopulation and unhygienic conditions, another drawback the Freeside had was how immense it actually was.

Divided into two sectors distributed from the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Fremont Street, the Freeside took almost three hours on foot to cross from one end to the other. Plus, if you didn’t count on the dispersed street thug gangs, chem-addicts and swarming masses slowing down your progress, that is.

Vulpes had always wondered how such an over-populated slum like this still kept roughly _thousands_ of mouths regularly fed without counting the Followers and The Kings’ respective aids, but he already had developed his own theories based on how the economy was distributed.

For the Freeside owed its economy mostly to housing rents nobody knew where they went to, but everyone who had a half-decent job paid religiously every month; flourishing business like The Atomic Wrangler and the deceased, ransacked Silver Rush plus Mick & Ralph’s second-handed wares; and many ‘unofficial’ small business like bodyguard services at the two entrances, drug dealing and street prostitution at every corner.

To Vulpes, the Freeside was the unpolished version of New Vegas, much like Nipton had been before his arrival.

Its – _slightly_ – wealthier counterpart, the Westside, wasn’t much better with almost the same terrain extension peppered with the prominent wagering business at The Thorn, a nitty pawnshop, more remarkable drug dealings and violent assaulting of any kind the closer one got to the Southern Gate… and the perennial prostitution-oriented business at Casa Madrid Apartments, where venereal diseases, lice and scabies were, if possible, much more frequent than in The Atomic Wrangler.

The entire city was a gigantic putrescent cancer feeding on the blood of the Mojave’s very inhabitants.

“Hey, pal.”

If given the opportunity, Vulpes needed nothing more than a handful of trusted men, a few cans full of oil-based fuel and a box of matches to operate the change and _cauterize_ the already pus-seeping wounded region from this… _disease_ under the guise of _civilization_.

“Ma friend here’s talkin’ to ye, pretty boy.”

For disease tended often to be a very rich breeding soil for _worms_ if not tended properly.

“Hey, asshole!”

Worms that lurked within the most humid, darkened spots of an already gangrenous limb.

“I’m fuckin’ talkin’ to y…!”

The very instant an uninvited hand lied upon his shoulder from behind to sink its dirty fingers on dark fabric like radscorpion pincers, Vulpes used the rotation of his own body to pull the thug’s weight to him and stamp a powerful forehand punch square into his face.

The pleasant crunch both broken nose and teeth made was enough to stir the unsated bloodlust he had been holding off since Ranger Station Charlie.

The armor protected him from bullet and white weapon penetration during the mugging, but he knew his body would be covered in hematomas at the end of the day giving how many baseball bat swings he had endured without even bothering to dodge while he had raged onto one thug at a time, shoving their pitiful knives down their throats and stomping over their ugly, dirty faces until bloody pulps was all that his steps had left behind.

But that was alright, pain sat well with him, it proved he was still alive. It proved he pertained to a finer, evolved branch of the human species.

The dominant one.

They had been five, they had thought they could overpower an armored six-feet tall albino weirdo.

He had proved them wrong.

‘Pretty boy’ _his ass_.

Once he got inside one of the abandoned houses near The Atomic Wrangler, he switched gear to his itchy, ugly brown dapper suit and wrapped the armor and helmet inside his travel backpack, wishing to have his gigantic duffle bag back as soon as possible.

Midday had brought many vagabonds out in the streets so they could take the mandatory nap that, later at night, with the chill, they wouldn’t be able to enjoy; thus why had been so easy to change with total privacy.

Vulpes entered the Wrangler catching the attention of one of the Garret Twins, the female this time, so he could have a Nuka and the only available thing that wasn’t pre-War trash food and didn’t include any sort of questionable meat on its preparation: noodles.

Once he got his order and rejected, per usual, the woman’s unsubtle suggestions to rent the services of an escort, Vulpes transferred his meal to one of the many deserted round tables in front of the small stage where a rotting ghoul with a pre-War suit was rehearsing punchlines so bad Vulpes pick his Pip-Boy’s earphones and put on some music so he wouldn’t have to suffer this poor attempt at humor.

That way had been how he had gotten totally unguarded when a light tapping on his shoulder had made him bristle.

However, the instant he saw the face pertaining to the daring hand, he contained his mercurial mood that had nearly made him grab at those fingers and twist them out of their bone sockets.

“Took you long enough.” – the new arrival said, a dark fedora obscuring his features the same Vulpes’ brown hat did with him – “What the…?! What happened to you? You look like shit!”

Must have been the split lip, the black eye or the cut cheekbone. Maybe a combination of the three, or so Vulpes mused.

“Right now, I sorely pity the absence of soap…” – he replied after gulping a mouthful of noodles he had been absently chewing on – “… so I could clean that filthy mouth of yours with it, dear brother.” – he added with severity, earning a grimace from the other.

“Geez, _touchy_, aren’t we?” – the newcomer replied while taking a sit alongside his brother – “Mind if I borrow you some?” – he asked, pointing avidly at the steaming bowl of noodles – “I’ve been fasting all day and the street food stands make me retch.”

“Have it all.” – Vulpes said, handing the sticks to him. He still felt hungry… but he couldn’t say no to Gabban – “Does your dietary standards have lowered significantly to ponder on eating cheap, most likely poisoned, trash food from the street stands… or has your economy diminished to the point you cannot afford decent food?” – when he saw Gabban almost choked on his mouthful of noodles, Vulpes eyes narrowed – “_Is it_, brother?”

“Look…” – the younger man replied nervously – “Is not what you think...”

Vulpes sighed with exasperation. He recalled the first time he had brought Gabban to New Vegas with him two years ago so his brother would get a feel on the field. They had bought a fake passport that had increased Gabban’s age by one year so the underage issue wouldn’t come later to bit them in the ass.

Vulpes had done the same back in his day under Anguis’ tutelage. His passport said he was twenty-two at the present.

The thing had been… that Gabban had never seen such an amount of bare flesh pertaining to females that did look men in the eye and contorted sultrily while wearing high heels and black corsets in the middle of the street, red lips inviting, siren-like voices calling for them.

While Vulpes had been always the exception that confirmed the rule when it came to his impassivity towards carnal desire, his younger brother had been as impressionable and hormonal as any other lad his age.

To make long story short, the next day, when he had localized him, Vulpes had been the one dragging his brother to the New Vegas Medical Clinic so the _exotic_ Followers’ female doctor there would rid him of the… itchy rash that had been extending from his crotch to the rest of the surrounding skin areas.

A lot of the caps that had been destined for spy work had evaporated that night and Vulpes had decided that he rather preferred his brother working as his Second-In-Command on more… tactical-oriented operations.

“I swear!” – the aforementioned Second-In-Command said, raising both hands in a surrender gesture – “No funny business this time!” – he was laughing nervously, not entirely sure why. He could appreciate annoying his brother from time to time since the Fox had next to zero sense of humor… but when it was about that first time on the Strip it was better if he kept his mouth shut. He had never suffered lashing under his brother’s rule, but Gabban didn’t think punishment was above him, even with his own blood - “However, during your absence, your short-haired dalliance and her merry band have been occupying their spare time meddling with the Three Families’ businesses and this has triggered… consequences.”

The gulp of Nuka he had been tasting got sour inside Vulpes’ mouth. He should have seen it coming; if the Courier now worked for House, which was likely since the man was allowing her and her people to live inside his fortress for free, he would have started telling her to cleanse the rancid atmosphere surrounding his immediate neighbors.

And each one of the Families had _something_ to hide.

“How many Families had been affected?” – he asked cautiously.

“Two. The Chairmen and the White Glove Society.”

Oh, _good_. She hadn’t dismounted their operation with the Omertas yet. Those were good news indeed.

“Regarding the latter… you really should come with me. Because I don’t have the slightest clue of what we should do next.”

Intrigued, Vulpes bought another Nuka and a big package of fries he and Gabban shared during the three-hour-long trip to the Westside, fighting their way first amidst the multitude, later quite _literally_ against small groups of desperate chem addicts the more they went South, right to the Casa Madrid Apartments.

* * *

After the longest half an hour of all his life holding a metallic bucket with his left hand while his right had been supporting Caesar’s weight as the man had started throwing up after one of his headaches that, this time, had come with a _seizure_; Lucius retired inside his tent sporting black circles around his eyes while feeling that any appetite he might have had built throughout the afternoon had abandoned him.

His already deflated mood didn’t get any better as he noticed the folded note over his desk addressed to him in the Head of Intelligence’s neat handwriting.

Unfolding it, already dreading its contents, the single line he found inside glued momentarily his ass to the chair he was sitting on.

_“Sighting and immediate disposing of a group of three Hounds of Hecate half an hour near Wolfhorn Ranch, date the 12th Sunday, February, 2282.”_

The _Summus_ Praetorian pinched his nose bridge tiredly as his hand balled up around the offending piece of paper. He wished he could be at Flagstaff with his family right now and not here, waking every day with a dry throat, dust in his boots and a belly full of maize gruel day before and day after.

Almost five years later and he was so done with the Mojave that he would have taken already his belongings and leave everything behind if it wasn't because he still respected Caesar.

But this, Frumentarii paperwork? He wished he could wipe his ass with it.

“By Mars’ balls, Vulpes…” – he groaned – “I hate you so much.”

* * *

The time had been perfect. Usually, the services at The Gourmand would continue until 11:00 PM when the restaurant would close its doors and Philippe would dedicate his skilled hands to elaborate the communal exquisite _delicatessen_ meant only for White Glove Society members.

The Brahmin Wellington had been the first (and remaining the most popular up today) delicacy that had been given birth inside his kitchen.

But lately, he had been working on something more… _adequate_ for the most demanding palate.

_“Sweet Veal”_, his last creation, was a close enough imitation… but nothing could compare to the _real thing_.

Mortimer’s palate, out of sheer willpower and discipline, had remained untouched through the years despite how low their gastronomy had gotten since Marjorie’s ‘face wash’ to their family had brought new rules that had brought their early tribal roots near extinction.

Mortimer wasn’t a young man. Marjorie wasn’t a young woman either, and most of their community members consisted mostly of thirty up to fifty-year-old individuals whose most relevant physical trait had been a permanent sickly paleness, applied even with dark-skinned members such as that uncouth Chauncey rat.

But how the foolish boy could have been so misguided had been only an unfortunate side counter effect due to Marjorie’s rule. And the youngsters didn’t remember as clearly as the elders.

They didn’t remember the tunnels they used to carve to communicate caverns. They didn’t remember the night hunts, the Nightstalker blood they used to drink in order to be more silent.

Then those creatures had started to emerge from the Earth’s entrails.

They had been quick; they had been strong… and even barely human.

Their hunts had started to be scarce and their refuges had become unsafe. The rundown building had been hard to seize, but the victory had ultimately been theirs.

Maybe their tactics hadn’t been honorable at all, but decades of survival hand in hand with subterfuge and betrayal had kept them alive, alive to reach ripe age beyond their sixties.

And the prize under the guise of countless corpses had been sweeter when they had discovered that the subterranean fridge was still usable.

House and his securitrons had come like the providential bucket of cold water to pour over their heads and clean their hands and teeth of blood.

But the memories… the occasional tremors, the sandpaper dryness all over the tongue every morning… Mortimer had been unable to forget.

Many of them had been unable to forget. He had talked to each one of them, and his thirst had found company in their thirst. His hunger had called for their hunger.

And their common desperation had transformed into purpose.

Philippe had been the first one to join in despite his non-tribal roots. And he had done it in his usual fashion: yelling and cursing at every step. Mortimer would have disposed of him long ago if it wasn’t because, to give him due credit, the man had truly invented _edible_ food.

Many had followed suit… and the rest would soon see the wisdom in his course of action when they would remember… when their bodies and tongues would awake from that stupor this unnaturally imposed _refinement_ had brought onto them.

Or so he had thought.

Cold starters of salads, small toasts of maize bread smeared with a thin layer of Brahmin _foie gras_ and pinyon nuts; and some cheese cream.

Pinot Noir and Cava had been the beverages.

For seconds, roasted mirelurk legs previously marinated in several spices and Wasteland Omelet, BlamCo Mac & Cheese substituted by Brahmin cheese during its preparation. Simply _exquisite_.

And then, the main dish: meat pie with garnish of peas and carrots.

“I know I'm not the scheduled speaker, but I have a few words, if I may.” – he had started to speak, raising but an octave of his calmed voice, watching his people licks their lips as they savored their pies with delectation. The full masks having been removed in favor of just eye-covering masks, so to keep the allure and mystery – “There was a time not so long ago when we were bound together not as members but as family. As a clan. And when Mr. House came to us with his proposal, we accepted, knowing we stood to gain much.” – then, his voice had darkened – “Little did we know how much we'd lose in the process.” – fear, contempt, despair, hunger, hope… so many feelings conveyed in so little words – “As a society, we've endeavored to sample the finest food and drink the world has to offer. But we are living a lie.” – up that point, his gaze had lingered briefly over Marjorie, her eyes also darkened with a hunger they both had known for years. Despite her best attempts, Marjorie had shared in their penance as well – “There is a meat sweeter than the most cornfed livestock. Most of you have tasted it. All of you have coveted it.” – he salivated at the thought, his meat pie all but evaporated from his platter – “Among us, it is a crime to discuss a return to the old ways that unified our people. Tonight, that all changes. The taboo ends.” – with her eyes dripping hunger, Marjorie had rose from her seat, her hungry mouth about to fill with lies – “Let me finish, Marjorie.” – he had asked, raising a hand – “You don't know it yet, but you are all now guilty of a greater crime. One that ordinarily bears the harshest of punishments.” – dramatic pause – “Surely that you are all guilty warrants not only universal amnesty but also a renewed discussion. For our society to be truly elite, we must dine on the most delicious, the most exclusive food known to us. And tonight, for the first time as a society, you are sampling that very dish, the meat we are forbidden to taste, the way it was meant to be eaten!” – it had felt like an epiphany, laughter and fulfillment threatening to build inside his throat, such happiness was to speak the words, to partake in the sin, to feel inside a community he felt true again as many fearful, though interested eyes regarded him, masticating the meat pie with something akin to reverence – “Fellow members of the White Glove Society, _bon appetit_!”

However, amidst the glow and shine of his victory, a small dark stain had bled in front of him as one of the ladies had risen from her seat and, undoing her fake high up hairstyle to reveal short black wild hair, she had taken off her mask dramatically.

The brat. The brat who, accompanied by the other two barbaric women, had sought to ruin his plans. The brat who had _dared_ to compare her _lowly_ culinary tastes with theirs.

The thrice-damned brat was there! Eating the most delicate dish of all! Inconceivable!

“Too bad your words have brought your crime to the light, Mortimer.” – she had spoken. Calm, collected, aloof and cold as a statue. An unnatural seriousness and well-chosen wording giving her an air more mature than her true age – “For none of the present are swallowing in _dehumanized_ pieces the _human_ boy you kidnapped yesterday.”

Anger had gotten upside his throat and he had vomited the bile in vocals and consonants.

“Kidnapped?!” – he had bellowed, indignation coloring his voice as well as his face – “Ludicrous!”

“Then you admit having attempted to use Heck Gunderson’s boy as the main dish for this dinner. You admit seeking to feast on an unwilling, _alive_ prey.”

Scoffing, Mortimer had pinned her with a disdainful stare.

“And the victory now is mine, fool!” – he had cackled – “For I’ve have tasted the pie and my palate doesn’t lie!”

“It does because I have been the cook behind its creation.” – no smiling, no self-assuring gloat. For this girl, the entire ordeal had been nothing but business – “Your _chef’s _secret recipes had been nothing but _enlightening_ about the kind of flavor his _‘Sweet Veal’_ dish attempted to imitate.”

Suddenly, Mortimer’s world had gotten a violent turndown, first eyeing his empty platter, then licking his lips with a lost expression, trying to remember how the pie had tasted. In his rushing to give the grand discourse, he had swallowed too fast. In his hunger, he had forgotten to savor, to palate the course with the finesse it required.

In his avarice, he had become a glutton instead of the sybarite he had known himself to be.

“No!” – he had exclaimed, still in denial – “These are lies! I never kidnapped anyone. And even if I did, there's no harm done. He's alive, after all, isn’t he… Courier Six?” – he had spat with all the contempt he could muster.

Still no smiling. Mortimer could respect a vicious opponent, one who would gloat over victory as he would, but not this… this _dispassionate_ child agent bearing Robert House’s business signature all over herself.

A mercenary, a hitman. Driven by a contract paid in caps. Worse than any other barbaric specimen positioning at the top of the evolutionary chain.

She was an aberration of nature, an ambulatory copycat of her Master.

A Vault Dweller, pitiful remains from a forbidden, distant past; an embodiment of everything that was wrong with human nature.

“Too late, Mortimer, for his safety will not undo the ill to many other lives your vices have brought upon.” – she had replied, men and women by her side getting up from their respective chairs, taking up masks and showing different faces of the same treacherous coin – “You all heard his confession.” – she stated, strapping her horrendous electronic device back to her left wrist – “Following your own inner rules, the punishment for cannibalism is death and I intend to bring the law among your herd as you cannot fight with your own urges. Any man or woman who would side with him will be deemed guilty and shall face the same punishment.” – with that, cane in hand, she had adopted a combat posture, her cohorts immediately following suit – “Lily!” – she had shouted – “Don’t let anybody out of this room!”

After that and the sudden monstrous appearance of a supermutant out of thin air, chaos had ensued.

Some of his Brothers and Sisters had jumped to his aid, but many others had shut their treacherous mouths and had attacked.

It had ended in a bloodbath and Mortimer had managed to escape barely alive, two bullets firmly embedded on his right arm, when he had taken his steps towards the kitchen area, blocking the door behind him and finding his way first to the subterranean tunnels. Next, to the sewers.

Luckily for him, the ancient sewage system under the ruins of the deceased Las Vegas had connected to other parts of the city, ending with Mortimer fighting against small groups of Fiends living underground and bartending for his life with the few caps he had managed to subtract before his escape, and his expensive cane, mask, and tuxedo.

He had ended dressed in rags, smelling of rat and safely conducted to the surface to the Westside.

Out of sheer fortune, he had bumped into a legionary in disguise who had bought him a few days of stay on the filthiest apartment at the Casa Madrid and had promised to inform about his precarious situation to the Head of Intelligence so the man in question would decide what to do next.

However, the promised “Head of Intelligence” was but a boy paler than even the less exposed member of Mortimer’s old clan to the Mojave sun; his blue eyes cold, hard and electric like a pre-War device scanning him up and down as he listened to his tale in silence.

The boy had long, elegant fingers he had crossed under his chin, his alien features firmly set on an unnatural neutral expression, giving away nothing even when Mortimer’s tale had been occasionally interrupted by muffled moans, wall hitting and the screeching of old mattresses under the straining of prostitutes and clients conducting Casa Madrid’s usual business.

Mortimer hadn’t known exactly what he found so unsettling about the young man - besides his striking skin discoloration - until his eyes landed upon the electronic device strapped to his left forearm.

Another Pip-Boy.

Mortimer had started to sweat profusely the very instant the pale young man had opened his mouth for the first time since the other agent and he had entered the apartment. Because his voice had the same dispassionate intonation that the Courier had used to address him during his last supper.

“Your report has been taken into consideration.” – he had stated, his split upper lip and cut cheekbone did not make him look battered, but bestowing a feral air around him – “And I, in the name of my Lord Caesar, consider that a prospect of an alliance between our factions is no longer possible.”

“But…” – Mortimer had argued – “I still have connections on the inside. I still could convince many members who hasn’t pronounced themselves… I even know of others outside our circle that share our ideals! Just give me some time and resources and…”

The young man had started to laugh. A thin, humorless, frightening laugh.

“_Ideals_, you say.” – he emphasized, correct pronunciation to a fault, oily quality on each syllable – “Beyond indulging in depraved gluttony, I cannot fathom what else a group of _old_, _weak_ and _pampered_ _Degenerates_, willing enough to sell their Master in exchange of freedom to conduct their immoral rituals, would share as beliefs worth enough to fight for.”

Those words had wounded Mortimer where it hurt the most: his pride, the only thing that he had been left.

A pre-War American proverb said that pride is said to be the last vice the good man gets clear of.

Mortimer was, by no means, a good man, and his sins had been aplenty during his dilated existence. His most sharpened weapon, besides using it to taste the flesh of his enemies, had been and still was his tongue.

So, he allowed his wounded pride to mix with cold wrath and lust to watch this scoundrel brat wither under his venomous words.

“What would a rabid dog, slave to a tribe bigger and greater enough to swallow the one who had given him birth, possibly know about ideals and beliefs when the ones he so blindly follows are but orders given by the Master who holds his leash?”

The transformation that had undergone before Mortimer’s very eyes had been so violent that he would have congratulated his sharp wit… if he hadn’t been pinned to the dirt of the ground under a strong pair of chalky hands, long as tarantulas.

“Don’t a _filthy cannibal_ like you dare…” – the discolored lips hissed, eyes storming above a wolf-like snarl showing a row of slightly pointed teeth – “… spit over my people’s _resilience_ and _sacrifice_!” – he bellowed, his voice instantaneously reverting to a pleasant, neutral tone that held as much bile as his previous outburst – “However, given your comparison to dogs, I ought to inform you that our _hounds_ demonstrate greater loyalty to each other every day than the wretched inhabitants of this town.” – the snarl morphed into a smile. A smile that still showed those pearly, pointy teeth – “You and your clan being the most prominent example of all, since the ones who jumped to defend you were also betrayed by your cowardice, leaving them behind instead of facing punishment with valor and honor.”

Gurgling under the hands of this pale monster, Mortimer attempted to kick it out of him, but he was quickly restrained by the second man, whose also electric blue eyes shone with cold violence.

Looking at each one at a time, Mortimer soon noticed the small similarities, bones and sinew drawing a common pattern under different skins.

And he immediately knew he had made a mistake. The last he would make.

“Do you know how we punish disloyalty in the Legion?” – the pale monster kept talking, its hard claws sinking deep in Mortimer’s tender skin – “When legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch.” – its hissing became more inhuman, much like the Vault Dweller who had brought his clan to disgrace – “Since we sought an alliance with your people and such an accomplishment is no longer possible, I will concede to you alone the privilege of becoming part of the Legion… to face immediate punishment for your disloyalty.”

“Punishment that we, as our duty demands out of us, will enforce with immediate effect.” – the other young man added, directing the same lupine smile to his fellow legionary – “Isn’t that true, brother?”

The pale monster’s grimace distorted, its smile becoming twisted and hungry.

“Very much so… dearest brother.”

* * *

It was nearly dusk, signaling the end of the eleventh day since _Zorro_ left.

He had said a week, perhaps a bit more if he wasn’t immediately received upon his arrival.

Six pondered all of this with her pockets filled with cookies she was eating absently while observing New Vegas from the great view the Cocktail Lounge offered with its tall glass panels pouring warm light into the big round room.

Designed as an architectonical imitation of a casino roulette, the central pillar dressed in stone housed the elevators while the bar drew a circle around it, which was also rounded by stools put over a platform with a balustrade that descended with a few steps into yet another circle composed of tables and chairs.

All of this also rounded by more coffee tables and sofas near the glass panels, achieving a very pleasant effect aiming for comfort and relax.

Despite its name, this had been oriented more on the cafeteria side than a bar. Six could see how many businessmen, friends, and lovers would have ended here either to enjoy a healthy, filling breakfast or an intimate dinner after a day or a night full of gambling and shows.

She was standing barefooted over one of the sofas, jumping a little bit both to help her focus and to burn off her hyperactivity. Cass and Raul were at the bar mixing cocktails with way more whiskey than the recipes they had found suggested; Boone was taking a nap on the nearer sofa with Rex curled at his feet; and Vero, Arcade and Lily were having a fun time playing cards.

They had offered her to join them earlier, but she had shaken her head, jumping over the sofa, saying that she needed to think.

**“How are the cookies, sweetheart?”** – Lily’s voice addressed her after winning for a second time.

Six had produced a cute delighted sound of contentment.

“Yummy, Granny!” – she had replied, her cheeks adorably full – “Best cookies ever, always.”

**“Oh, pumpkin, you make grandma so happy!”** – the Nightkin _boomed_ in delight.

It was easy to make Lily happy.

It was easy to keep all of them happy… as long as nobody would bring up the White Glove Society.

To call their experience on the poshest hotel and casino in the entire Strip “unpleasant” would be an understatement. Nobody had left the place without feeling the urging need to _bathe_ as soon as possible.

And that, without counting the psychological straining when they had to deal with the unstable _chef_ and the bloodthirsty cannibals who had disregarded Marjorie’s rule and had jumped to literally _bite_ them off. Arcade had taken his time when he had to disinfect his, Cass, Boone, Lily and Veronica’s bite marks, fearing that some of those… _maneaters_ would have had rabies.

And Six had left relatively unscathed just because they had formed a human wall around her, thus taking most of the damage.

But that hadn’t impeded that she wore quite a few band-aids all over her face, arms and knees. She had insisted that they should save their Stimpacks for more serious damage than superficial scratches.

Not even all the caps they had gotten from Heck Gunderson after returning his air-headed boy to him safe and sound, and the rest coming from House’s compliments wouldn’t erase such a jarring experience from their minds.

She wished _Zorro_ had been there with them. While the others wanted to forget the terrible experience by keeping it on the quiet, Six was sure _Zorro_ would have exchanged impressions with her, making her feel better that she wasn’t the only one wanting to talk about it, to clean the air a bit. He didn’t look like the type who would shy from talking about bad things. He had done it previously, in Nipton, and the situation hadn’t been so bad for her because they had talked.

True that he had been the hand behind the deed, but his rationalization over such a massacre had helped her to not losing sleep the nights after.

She wished she could talk with him now.

She stopped her idle jumping and, after chewing on her lower lip, pondering an idea, she turned on her Pip-Boy.

She had thought about it a lot these last days and, while she wasn’t sure how he would react, her need to know if he was okay, to know if he wanted to talk… to know if he was going to come back, had won over her insecurities. Right now.

Or maybe it was the sugar, getting too fast to her brain from the jumping.

Still chewing on her lower lip, she opened the chat, ignoring Yes Man’s idle questions, and introduced the ID.

Then, she started to type.

** _08:33 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Hi?_

* * *

The thing he hated the most at this hour was how overcrowded was the North Gate of the Strip.

An endless line of people ahead of him were patiently waiting to pass the securitrons’ check so they could enter Sin City to waste their money and energy on useless, expensive leisure time that would render them poorer and more miserable than they already were.

Vulpes had never understood the allure. But he could understand that people preferred New Vegas at night, so their sins and indulgences would be more unnoticed than out plain sight under the sun.

He had changed back to his Riot Gear and he was receiving quite the interesting looks from people, more prominently the brute behind him who was itching to elbow him but was refraining just because the armor looked _menacing_.

Vulpes liked to look _menacing_.

With nothing better to do as he waited for his turn, he put on the earphones – _again_ – so he could ignore the multitude and aimed for some Wagner quality time when a tiny alert popped up from the interface’s upper right corner.

It read: **_‘You have a new message.’_**

With his index finger paralyzed inches above the tactile screen, suddenly nervous and taking a quick discrete look around him should he was being observed, he opened the unfamiliar menu of something that looked like a private channel an unidentified ID had opened between his device and theirs.

** _08:33 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_ ** _ Hi?_

Blinking twice, as if to be sure he was reading well and, after a lengthy hesitation, he wrote back.

** _08:41 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Who’s there?_

* * *

Six blinked, she hadn’t expected him to be online or even being able to use his Pip-Boy right now.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel so brave. She was expected to write an answer and she didn’t know where to begin.

Her cheeks and nose burned furiously as she typed back lamely.

** _08:44 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ It’s me._

* * *

Vulpes raised one eyebrow. That wasn’t the answer he had expected.

Intrigued, he typed back.

** _08:46 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ “Me” who?_

* * *

Okay, that was to be expected. She was a dork for not saying it since minute one.

** _08:47 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Six._

She awaited impatiently.

** _08:48 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c:_ ** _ Six what?_

Was he playing dumb?

** _08:49 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ It’s Courier Six, you dummy.  
_ ** _2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c:_ ** _ How did you contact me?  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ I know your device’s ID. It was mine before, remember?  
_ ** _2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c:_ ** _ How can I be sure that you are who you say you are?_

Wait, what?

** _08:53 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ You’re kidding, right?  
_ ** _2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c:_ ** _ Oh, I assure you that I am, in no way, one to partake in jesting. However, should you persist in this nonsense, I will have to block you and check with an experienced Programmer what I need to do to change my ID so you wouldn’t have the chance to contact me again.  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Wait! I’ll send you an audio file._

* * *

The file in question took a bit to fully download.

Unsure if he should play an audio file that, maybe, had been done with ill intention to demoralize him, Vulpes ended listening to it after a while out of pure boredom waiting at the line. After all, it lasted only ten seconds.

** _“I salute you, o Suspicious One!”_ ** _ – then, giggling – **“Believe me now, silly?”**_

That… was _actually_ the Courier’s voice. But they could have recorded it anytime, anywhere.

And the NCR spies worked with computers.

** _09:13 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Very well, that is, indeed, the Courier’s voice.  
_ ** _2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_ ** _ So now you believe me?  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ No.  
_ ** _2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_ ** _ Whyyyyy? :(  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ It takes more than an audio you might have recorded at some point from her to convince me.  
_ ** _2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_ ** _ Oooookay… How about a pic?_

When the file had downloaded, Vulpes had to put his hand over his mouth to prevent bringing attention on his person should he allowed himself to laugh as hard as he wanted right now.

The picture was a front of the Courier’s face… cross-eyed and sticking out her tongue.

** _09:18 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

**_2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_**_ You liked it, don’cha? _( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
**_Fox:_**_ Playful, aren’t we?  
_**_2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_**_ Alwayssssss  
_**_Fox:_**_ Still not proof enough to convince me.  
_**_2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_**_ Awww, u’re mean! T_T  
_**_Fox:_**_ That picture could have been taken from her any other time.  
_**_2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_**_ Both the audio file and the pic have the dates and hours they were taken written on their titles! It’s a default mechanism of the OS.  
_**_Fox: _**_You could have modified those as well.  
_**_2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3:_**_ What can I do to convince you, then? :(_

He stopped answering to the new messages when the woman in front of him shuffled off through the gates. Now was his turn.

The nearest securitron rolled over and scanned his pupils.

Beeping and a static noise after, the machine grunted its approval.

_“Welcome back, Mr. Fox.”_

With that, he was finally free to roam Sin City, the gates opening at him as the familiar despicable sights of shimmering neons, wannabe comedians, drunk NCR troops, street licensed vendors and half-naked whores swaggering on the streets welcomed him.

But he was aiming for an entirely different direction this time.

* * *

More than ten minutes, and still no answer. Had he grown tired of talking to her?

Or maybe he still thought that she might be an NCR spy or whatever he could come up with…

Emotionally deflated, she watched her chat as if her last questions would give any meaning to why he wasn’t answering. Had she been too annoying? Too forward? Too enthusiastic?

She closed the chat sadly and put the earphones on. She was going to jump while listening to music to brighten up a bit.

However, before she could search for an adequate track, the chat came to life again.

** _09:38 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Very well, if you are who you claim you are… look down._

Not getting it at first, she looked at herself but then, she walked by the closest sofa’s armrest by the windows and, looking down, her eyes watered and her ears got red as a loud happy squeal emerged from her throat: at the entrance, _Zorro_ was lifting the portable capsule with Rexie’s future brain inside.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "Be careful. Kick to propel yourself. This way, see?"  
(2) - "Do what I do. Hiena, don't you dare open your mouth."  
(3) - "Today, you are given the opportunity to live, to serve Caesar and his Legion, for we are many and our tribe requires capable men with the necessary integrity to endure the vicissitudes that, day after day, bring glory, prosperity, and security to our august Empire. However, should your hand would hesitate, your blows would fail or your will would falter when you face those whom you once called ‘brothers’… you will fall into the void of oblivion as you will pay for your weakness with blood. For oblivion is but the fate that awaits for the name of your tribe, for your ignorance, for your barbaric customs. The choice is yours alone. Let the Dimidio begin."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> LATIN:
> 
> (A) - "Vulpes at the gates." - It comes from "Hannibal ad portas" (Roman alert when Hannibal was approaching to Rome, around 217 BC). Yes, Caesar is a fanboy through and through.  
(B) - "Faster Higher Stronger. And certainly clever."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: Extra long chapter is extra long... but I wanted it to end cute, so cute it is! :D  
It probably shows a lot many of F:NV fics I've been reading as of late, because some ideas I will freely admit that I am taking from them. When an idea is good, is good. I hope this doesn't pose a problem.  
Thank you so much to the people giving me new Kudos! I hope this story, long as it is, is making you enjoy its reading. And now even more with the Coronavirus thing out there.  
The next chapter is already on the go! Cheers!
> 
> PD: yep, "Home Alone" reference. Fucking Rangers. Kill me again.


	11. Wish I could fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains non-descriptive gore and Legion's dickery. You already know the drill or you wouldn't keep braving chapter after chapter ;)

* * *

_He had seen the new kid trotting around with that floating pile of junk beeping behind. So full of life, so eager to help folks around._

_He wished he could feel happy for the McBrides now that their brahmin problem had been solved. He wished he could be grateful that the new kid had resupplied the local “doctor”, that butcher named Ada Strauss, with chems enough to service the townspeople a little cheaper than usual._

_Hell, he wished he had been the one talking to Andy about his wounds, about that feeling of not letting go, about the service on Bitter Springs… the horrors they both had seen there. He truly wished he had been the one opening up with the old Ranger instead of the kid._

_But since… what happened almost a year ago, nobody would look him in the eye._

_He would observe the town from his position at night, asking himself why, wondering who._

_Two days ago, when he had been too drunk to care, he had attempted to end everything… but the damn pistol had been unloaded._

_He had destroyed the auxiliary table by his bed in a rage fit. Carla’s photo had ended on the carpet, surrounded by crystals._

_He had pocketed the photo and had slept in his work clothes and boots. She had been the one maintaining a semblance of order and cleanliness within this wreck of an apartment. Now dust, empty beer bottles and disarray owned every inch inside._

_He couldn’t care less, though. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore._

_This afternoon at dusk, he had bumped into Manny. He hadn’t even returned the brief salutation the other man had directed to him._

_Because he couldn’t bring himself to care. Manny had betrayed him._

_Just like the rest of this town._

_He had lowered the rifle a bit, just to check if the old photo was still inside his pocket, just to see if there was something he still cared for._

_The screeching coming from the metallic door behind him had almost made him jump, so he had turned around quickly, prepared for anything._

_The rifle’s nozzle had ended pointing at a very scared small girl whose eyes had watered while her bony arms had risen in the universal surrendering gesture. The floating pile of circuitry behind her had beeped in an almost questioning tone._

_The kid… the kid was… a girl?_

_“Goddamn it! Don't sneak up on me like that!” – he had hissed, lowering his weapon, showing the frightened girl that he meant no harm – “You shouldn't be here. This is a sniper’s nest.” – shit, the poor thing was all eyes and front teeth. She was a head shorter than him, how old could she be? If she had crossed the railroad coming from the South, she had been damn lucky that the Legion hadn’t enslaved her while on the roads. Where was her mother? – “What do you want?” – he had sighed, unsure of what to do if she started crying. He was never good at comforting people._

_Blinking twice as if attempting to not showing that she had been, indeed, about to cry, she started to fidget nervously._

_“Hum…” – she hesitated – “Just wanted to say hi to the night watch. I’ve already spoken with Manny… he wouldn’t help me with my problem.”_

_Shit, she had the voice of a little mouse. Cute to a fault. Too girly, too tender._

_“Problem?” – he asked, raising a brow behind his sunglasses – “What problem are we talking about and why do you think I could be of any help?”_

_“It’s… personal.” – she said, hesitating yet again – “Maybe you have seen a man in a checkered suit a few weeks ago?”_

_“Look, if you are after some boyfriend nonsense it’s none of my…”_

_“He…” – she gulped, clearly trying to steel herself – “He… robbed me and… shoot me in the head.” – she said, taking off her baseball cap and showing him the recent scarring that her short hair didn't manage to cover well enough._

_Taking his sunglasses off, he had taken note of the closed wounds. She shouldn’t be alive at all._

_“When this has happened?” – he inquired._

_“Almost a month ago…” – she answered, scrunching her peppered button nose – “Maybe a whole month, actually. I’m having trouble measuring time since.”_

_“Did a doctor take care of you?” – he questioned again – “Where are your parents? You shouldn’t wander outside all by yourself after a murderer with all the dangerous creatures of the Mojave and those crimsons lurking around to kidnap young girlies like you.”_

_Her lower lip trembled._

_“My parents are dead.” – she said, her voice low – “The man who shot me took… all the memorabilia I have from them.” – lowering her head, she muttered – “He also took a package I was meant to deliver in New Vegas. If I don’t recover those things, I will forget my family eventually and I will be fired from the Mojave Express.” – she suppressed a sob – “I… don’t know why I am telling you all my crap but… You know… my Big Bro served as well… You sound a bit like him…”_

_She had spent all the night by his side, sitting on the dinosaur’s mouth while she kept talking, telling him small bits about her brother, hinting at some military training that had informed him that she had been, somehow, in the army too despite her saying that she wasn’t NCR; but mostly speaking about what the man, Benny, had taken from her and how many miles she had crossed through the desert alone to end here, pouring her fears and troubles on a complete stranger._

_He had listened throughout her tale without uttering a word. Carla used to talk a lot too, and that had suited him fine. He had never known what to say. And now wasn’t any different._

_While Carla had been love at first sight, this girl had been protectiveness at first look once he has had her in front of him. She was like a lost baby calf amidst a desert full of hungry coyotes._

_And she was kind-hearted, for she had asked about his jumpiness, genuinely wanting to know if he was okay and if she could do something to help him._

_He had dismissed it, telling her not to worry, but eventually opening up a bit, mentioning something about not trusting the people in this city, something around the lines of giving him a shout should one night men dressed in crimson would attempt to enter in her apartment._

_She had said nothing and had accompanied him getting back to his own apartment once his shift was over. They had shared a measly breakfast. He had liked it._

_He had liked to feel, for the first time in months, like a normal person again and not that guy everybody pitied but nobody gave a crap about the fate of said guy’s wife._

_This girl had cared, even if she hadn’t known the half of it._

_It was comforting to know that there were decent human beings still out there._

_She had made him trust again._

_Because the next night she had come before him bearing a bill of sale, saying that she knew what had happened to his wife and who had been the son of a bitch who had sold her to the Legion._

_After Jeannie May’s treacherous brains had ended splattered over the desert ground, he had vowed to protect this girl who, despite being a total stranger, had done him the one very kindness he was so desperately looking for._

_She had given him the chance of revenge… and the gift of purpose._

* * *

A shrill, high-pitched squeal made Boone’s body, placidly asleep over the sofa, jump so high he ended on the floor.

Rex’s barks were the next thing he was aware of before looking to his left and watch the girlie’s small naked feet jumping from the sofa she had been hopping on and land on one of the carpets to start sprinting to the elevator, the dog immediately following suit.

The almost instant _ding_ Boone heard informed him that the girlie was aboard the lift before any of them had the opportunity to react.

“Holy shit.” – he heard Cass saying once Boone managed to get on his two feet, watching disoriented the scene of his comrades crowding in front of the glass panels, following the direction the redhead’s eyes were looking to – “He’s back after all.”

_He?_

Nearing the glass panels and looking down, Boone bared his teeth silently as he caught sight of the newcomer: wearing black from neck to toe, there was the albino shit showing them the filled brain capsule while he was inclining the weight of his body forwards, one of his long legs resting over upper stairs as if making a solemn offering.

He was imitating one of those poses that _Tales of Chivalry_ depicted when a knight came to offer his services to a king… or to pledge his love to a lady.

Boone’s teeth gnashed as soon as he heard Veronica, who was watching the scene like the rest from above, echoing his very thoughts by saying:

“O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”

* * *

Vulpes had to admit that, keeping this position for so long and with so many people in the street turning their heads to observe what he was doing, made him feel a bit ridiculous but, as soon as the metallic gates of the Lucky 38 unfolded before him to reveal a Cheshire Cat grinning, bright-eyed Courier accompanied by Rex, he felt that his efforts were worth it.

First, the cyberdog literally jumped him by pulling its front paws against his chest, seeking to give him a thorough face wash with its long tongue.

Vulpes stumbled a bit, balancing his weight with the cyberdog’s against him. The poor animal didn’t realize that roughly a seventy percent of its bodily structure was made of _heavy_ metal. Once he regained his balance, the young man scratched behind Rex’s ears while giving its real paw and wet nose soft patting until the animal, satisfied, released him.

The Courier’s nose and cheeks looked flushed as if she had come here running. She looked very pleased to see him until she got closer and frowned.

“What happened to you?” – she asked, pointing at his split lip and black eye.

“Vipers, ill recovering usage of Hydra and street thugs.” – he replied calmly, taking in the multiple band-aids she wore all over her face and her naked arms. They were looking at each other intently, assessing damage on their respective interlocutor, the steps’ height difference making them eye to eye – “But I see that I am, by no means, the only one who has faced the unpleasantries of others’ aggressive behavior. What is your story, Courier?” – he asked, taking an educated guess about the nature of those minimal scratches. That Mortimer rat had described the Courier and her companions like monsters attacking his ‘poor’ clan mercilessly, but he hadn’t elaborated on what they had done in retaliation.

“Cannibals.” – she answered, grimacing – “Long story.”

Correct guess.

“I’m sure any story involving such kind of human depravation cannot be boring at all.” – he nudged gently, wanting to know all the details of how she and her merry band had finished Mortimer’s people. Any legionary enjoyed a good battle story from time to time. It was something they could relate with easily – “Care to share it?” – he breathed, taking a step up to her, wordlessly claiming his superior stature while he picked a random strand of her wild hair and put it behind her left ear. Again, his inner fox was licking whiskers when the rosy flush on her cheeks increased.

“Only…” – she replied, kind of shyly, kind of cheekily – “… If you allow Arcade to check on your wounds.”

Vulpes raised a brow.

“I assure you it isn’t necessary at all.”

“After saying you managed to poison yourself with Hydra?” – she replied, raising her brows in unison, giving him a matter-of-factly look – “Try again, Fox Man. I am well aware of the insane ingredients you guys use to cook such a monstrosity. Any slip in any of the venom dosages and you’re dead.”

“Well, as you may have noticed, I’m very much alive.”

“Don’t be so stubborn and accept our lovely medical care for free.” – she coaxed, too cute to resist, while extending a small hand to him – “Come in?”

He had already taken that hand before thinking.

And he allowed her to merrily guide him back to the dusty gloom he had grown used to in a few days of staying. The metallic doors closing immediately Rex came in after them.

“Hungry?” – she asked, directing their steps towards the elevator.

“Very.” – he answered.

In fact, he was _starving_.

“Cookie?” – she asked again, fumbling inside one of her oversized shirt’s pockets and turning to him with the named sweet on her free hand, offering.

Occupied as both his hands were with the portable capsule and the Courier’s fingers grabbing on his, Vulpes hesitated a bit, weighing between how ridiculous felt eating _right from her hand_ and how appetizing the baked sweet looked, but ended sinking fangs on the cookie nonetheless.

Giggling impishly, she guided him inside the elevator.

He had missed Lily’s nut cookies so much.

* * *

Going over his mental list of tasks for the fifteenth time in the last hour while keeping his traitorous teeth from going for his already bitten down nails were clear symptoms of how stressed Gabban felt right now.

Because he was stressed.

Didn’t his brother feel stressed with so much scheming? Didn’t he got tired sometimes of engineering these intricate plans, relying more on strategy and subterfuge than outright brute force, that later would only be regarded as cowardly and undignified by _Legatus_ Lanius, his most bitter adversary?

Since Vulpes raised to the position of _Summus_ Frumentarius two years ago, he had kept dealing with the – _slightly _– more veteran Lanius’, Monster of The East, crap since minute one.

Gabban didn’t know all the details, but he knew that, two years ago as soon as his brother had stepped out the arena, the _Legatus_ had made a commentary on Callidus Anguis’ pathetic defeat at the hands of a _skinny pretty boy_.

Vulpes _detested_ being called ‘pretty boy’.

So, he had given Lanius a piece of his mind in his educated, poisonously affected way.

And, since then, the two didn’t lose a chance to keep throwing jabs at each other, Lanius unhindered, Vulpes in a more subtle – although venomous, nonetheless - way.

Worst thing of all was that Caesar, apparently, enjoyed these catfights and only reprimanded them when they took their words way too far.

Gabban had told his brother countless times not to pursue enmity with Lanius, knowing very well what fate awaited him if Caesar – somehow – kind of _died_ and the _Legatus_, being the official replacement as Caesar didn’t have any heirs of his own, rose to power.

But his brother, despite being the rational one amongst their family, wouldn’t budge.

He would reply to Gabban to mind his own business and, sometimes, even dropping an insinuation bordering on _treason_ about _poison_ and something along the lines of not allowing Lanius to command the Legion for much longer after Caesar’s death.

Each time, Gabban would find his brother’s chain of thought more and more disturbingly creepy and _dangerous_.

And, if Vulpes had a real pastime, that was playing _dangerous games_. The most immediate example being his dalliance with the infamous Courier Six, although he had dismissed it as a ‘_mere surveillance mission to see if the Courier was Legion material’_.

A _girl_? Legion material? If Vulpes truly believed that, he must be either delusional or with his eyes more trained on the Courier’s ass than on the gun in her hand.

Hey, could happen, even to his frosty brother who always looked at New Vegas’ prostitutes with an expression as if he had suckled on a lemon.

Gabban couldn’t really blame him: admittedly, the girl was kinda cute… in a weird sense of the word.

A _really_ weird sense of the word.

Anyway, he was the boss, he knew best. And Gabban’s work had but started.

Because he had been tasked with a series of responsibilities that worked along the lines of, basically, substituting Vulpes while he was at his thing with the Courier.

And the first course of action he had to undergo was informing both Alexus and Dead Sea that they had green light to start their double attack over Nelson. They needed to be informed who was in charge and what agreed signal they should await to launch the offensive.

Alexus was going to be very pissed off when Gabban will announce that Dead Sea, being the veteran of the two, was in charge.

Gabban grimaced as he approached the boulder of Techatticup Mine. He had been walking for two days, bidding his time while actively avoiding NCR patrols near Boulder City and the HELIOS One power plant along the 95, bumping on a fellow Legion patrol composed mostly of rookies who had managed to detain an NCR shipment meant for Camp Forlorn Hope, Southeast of HELIOS One.

Seems that, despite the Courier’s aid to the many NCR encampments and Ranger Stations, their thin-stretched forces were no match for various sets of Legion groups relying on guerrilla strategies at the river’s bank that Vulpes had engineered with mathematic precision so they were constantly moving while exchanging shifts between Cottonwood Cove and several Legion safehouses and supply caches, forming a perfect arc between the Hoover Dam and the deserted Blue Paradise Vacation Rentals on the Western side of the Colorado River.

Damn it, but his brother was good at his stuff.

Stopping, bidding the usual prudential distance, he howled.

This time, the answer was immediate.

“You again?” – was Alexus’ gruff greeting once Gabban was able to get rid of the usual tide of canine love coming from the Decanus’ mongrels – “What is it this time?”

“Hi to you too.” – had been the Frumentarius’ dry reply – “I bear news on the Nelson operation.”

The Decanus’ posture tensed visibly. It was a good sort of tension coming from Alexus, the tension of _anticipation_.

“So?” – the Decanus had asked impatiently.

“Dead Sea will be the one leading it.”

Alexus’ crossed arms twitched. Gabban would bet that, behind the Decanus’ helmet, a deep frown was marring his sibling’s sharp features.

“Fuck Dead Sea.” – Alexus hissed – “Fuck Vulpes and fuck you too.”

“Hey, don’t look at me.” – Gabban replied, raising his hands in a peace gesture – “Was his idea, not mine.”

“Don’t give me that crap. I know you will never get the balls to suggest him otherwise.”

“Shit, Alex! What do you expect me to do?!” – Gabban exclaimed. He had been together with his twin since before birth… and to deal with his other half had been always frustrating to no end. Alexus had both a fist and a temper to be reckoned – “You know Dead Sea has more experience; you know that Caesar favors him!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” – Alexus replied stubbornly – “This is all about Vulpes and his nanny issues.”

Then, the Frumentarius smiled mysteriously.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” – he replied calmly.

“What do you mean?” – the Decanus demanded.

“You see, our brother wants to wipe an entire Ranger Station out of the map, and he has given me a few specifications on how he wishes it to be done.” – Gabban explained, extending a discolored folder to his sibling.

Alexus grabbed the offering without uttering a word and Gabban could tell that the Decanus’ eyes were getting the size of platters as blue eyes behind dark lens perused the folder’s contents.

“Is this for real?” – there was hope in Alexus’ voice, a shred of emotion and genuine excitation. If there was something his twin wanted more than anything, that was proving worthy before Vulpes' eyes, for him to stop seeing a girl and, instead, beholding the soldier – “The localization, the weaker spots, the numbers, the strategy?”

“All good and true with green lights as soon as you finish your mission with Dead Sea.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because he deems you prepared enough to face a real fight with tough motherfuckers on your own?” – his sibling was happy, Gabban, by extension, was happy – “I will be supervising the operation, though, but you still will be in charge. I believe this is a test of sorts.”

Closing the folder, Alexus’ head cocked slightly to the left.

“A test, you say?” – then, a pause – “I’m not fucking entering Frumentarii ranks, let’s be clear on that.”

Gabban sighed. Since Vulpes had gotten his position as Caesar’s Head of Intelligence, he had sought to enlist both his siblings under his orders to have them close… and conveniently _controlled_.

Alexus knew this and had always refused every indirect invitation… but that didn’t see to keep Vulpes from trying.

“You do it and let’s see what happens.” – the Frumentarius said in a placating tone – “Besides, wouldn’t you relish the chance to prove that a bunch of Rangers are no match for you and your _contubernium_?”

He could hear the thirst of blood in Alexus’ voice when the Decanus answered.

“Damn right, brother. Damn right.”

* * *

Flipping the pen lantern from one very blue eye to the other, a pupil slightly more dilated than its counterpart, the time responses looked fairly normal.

“You don’t appear to have a concussion.” – was Arcade’s flat conclusion, turning off his portable lantern – “Maybe slight remnants of the intoxication, but I’ll venture another dosage of RadAway will take care of that well enough. I’ll advise, though, that you brush thoroughly your teeth to avoid possible rotting giving how corrosive the Hydra ingr… would you please stop eating for a second?” – he added, irritated.

The young man sitting in front of him finished masticating the sandwich bite he had taken and swallowed it, blinking once.

“I’m hungry.” – was his reply. A reply that, if he had used any other voice tone rather than the perennial monochord without inflections, would have sounded _childish_.

Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses slightly while closing his eyes tiredly.

“You are not helping.” – he protested, frowning – “Neither _you_ are, Six.” – he added, turning to his left, scolding.

Because, by the young man’s side, the scene wasn’t much better: legs dangling from the table where she was sitting, Six was also swallowing another sandwich while a tray full of them rested on her lap.

Between the two of them alone, seven sandwiches had already disappeared. And another few when Rex had started stealing some of them from the girl’s lap.

“He started it.” – she replied flippantly, giving a cheeky smile full of bread crumbs to Vulpes when he turned his head with a raised brow to her – “Besides, these are really yummy.” – she said while raising her half-eaten sandwich.

“_Rebuenos._” **_(1)_ **– Raul’s raspy voice behind Arcade confirmed that last statement between munches. Luckily, after two hundred years, he still had teeth left to enjoy solid food.

“Damn straight.” – Cass echoed the sentiment as well – “Best sandwiches ever, Grams.”

**“Aw, grandma is so happy you’re enjoying those, children.”** – Lily’s voice reverberated through the room – **“I’ve made them with all my love. Leo kept insisting on poisoning them, though.”** – abruptly, the munching ceased – **“But I didn’t pay attention to him. I’ve already scolded him for thinking such mean things.”** – then, the munching started again.

“Who’s Leo?” – inquired Vulpes and, out of the sudden, he started to receive alarmed looks from everyone except the supermutant, who kept talking.

**“Leo is a very bad man, pumpkin!”** – she exclaimed, her voice taking an abrupt change as if she were talking with someone else in a slightly harsher tone – **“Yes you are, Leo, don't try to deny it!”** – and then, her demeanor changed again, addressing Vulpes again – **“He tells me to do things, terrible things, and sometimes the medicine isn't enough to keep him quiet!”**

Recalling Veronica’s commentary about the Nightkin suffering from Schizophrenia, Vulpes assumed this Leo entity must be a product of Lily’s delirium.

_Interesting…_

“And why, if he’s so evil, do you permit him to stay?” – the alarmed looks quickly mutated into many sets of hands and mouths fretting, silently attempting to quieten him, but the Frumentarius ignored them, intent on his slightly morbid curiosity – “Who has invited him here?”

The supermutant seemed to hesitate, but soon her booming voice turned into angry yelling, still addressing the inexistent entity.

**“Bad, bad Leo!”** – she exclaimed, earning that Cass, Raul and Veronica, the more immediate people standing next to her, covered their ears while Rex whined – **“Absolutely not! I won’t allow you to harm little Jimmy!”**

Shocked, when Vulpes’ mouth started to open to say something, he found it covered by various sets of hands. The Courier’s, Arcade’s and Cass’ to be precise.

“Granny!” – Veronica stepped in just in time to grasp the altered Nightkin’s attention – “Shouldn’t you be taking your medication now?”

**“Oh, you… you’re right, Becky, sweetie. What I would do without you?”** – Lily said, patting gently Veronica’s head – **“Hush, Leo, it’s medicine time now!”** – she added, picking a decent-sized plastic bottle of pills from one of her pockets and taking two while Veronica sweet-talked her to accompany her to the recreational area so both could sit and relax together.

Once the gigantic granny was out of earshot, Cass collapsed on her knees.

“Shit, Tribal Boy.” – she sighed, her hands trembling – “A lil’ more prodding on your part and everybody present would have likely ended a huge bunch of meatloaf by the end of the hour.”

Arcade retired his hands with Six following close so he could wipe the cold sweat that has been forming around his brow.

“Never attempt to reason with Lily concerning Leo.” – the Courier explained to a confused Frumentarius, who had taken his own hand to his lips, where the girl’s small hands had rested over – “We tried it once… it wasn’t pretty, and she…”

“And she _frenzied_.” – finished Boone, leaning lightly against the doorframe, eyeing Vulpes with disdain behind his sunglasses. He was evidently displeased by the young man’s presence amongst them and wasn’t bothering hiding it – “Next time, shut your damn mouth when everybody else is giving you red lights.” – he didn’t give Vulpes the satisfaction of replying back when he disappeared again, back to the corridor’s gloom.

Vulpes’ teeth clenched angrily, but soon calmed when the Courier’s little hands took one of his and squeezed briefly.

“You don’t worry, okay?” – she said soothingly – “You couldn’t possibly know that.”

The Master Frumentarius didn’t like being cooed like a child but, for some reason, coming from her didn’t feel that way.

In fact, he missed the contact of her hands on his when the Followers’ doctor, Arcade, reassumed his medical examination and Cass hooked her arm with Raul to accompany her getting some whiskey to calm her nerves.

“I am going to inject you small dosages of a whole Stimpack near the biggest hematomas so it helps the broken capillaries regenerate.” – tapping twice the needle until it expulsed any possible remaining air, he added – “Hold still.”

And Vulpes held stiffly as an angry cat until he looked at the Courier sideways and his mouth watered when he saw her resuming eating sandwiches. He still felt hungry.

“That should do.” – said Arcade once he was done with the RadAway too – “Brush your teeth, keep yourself hydrated and… well, start thinking about getting yourself a good pair of reading glasses soon.”

That got Vulpes' attention.

“What for?” – he demanded.

“Your melanin condition.” – the doctor replied, half apologetically, half still retaining his professionalism. Nobody liked it when doctors broke on bad news – “It also affects your sight.”

“My sight is good.” – Vulpes replied defensively.

“That is because you are still young.” – said Arcade, equally defensive – “Look… it’s just a suggestion, okay? Start making it a habit of wearing sunglasses outside by daylight all the time.”

“My sight is good.” – the young man insisted, a deep frown set on his brow as he watched the blonde doctor getting up to store back his equipment inside his leather bag.

“Okay, okay.” – Arcade’s tone, contrary to his actual intentions, did nothing but making the boy’s frown even deeper. The poor doctor was never good at dealing with people, that’s why he preferred the investigation field. At least chemical components, fungus and bacterium hadn’t feelings to deal with – “You know your body best, you’ll do it when you think it’s the right time.”

With that, he left the two youngsters and the dog alone, Six still munching on her sandwich eyeing Vulpes timidly, unsure of what to do or what to say. Rex, perceptive in his animal condition, started lapping at Vulpes' forearm lovingly.

She then put the sandwich tray between the two of them.

“Wanna some more?” – she asked, half wishing he wouldn’t lash at her for bluntly ignoring what had just happened.

However, she discovered that was the wisest course of action, for Vulpes’ brooding mood quickly shifted as soon as he grasped two sandwiches and ate with her in silence, patting Rex’s wet nose from time to time.

He was still hungry and his sight was _still good_.

* * *

**“I beg your pardon, but I am not entirely sure if I have heard you correctly: do you intend on taking a long trip to heal that cybernetic mutt of yours, strengthen your alliance with those Great Khans savages, work a possible pact with the elusive Boomers up Northeast, and revisit several NCR encampments and Ranger Stations helping “boost their morale” so they still believe you are on their side. Correct?”**

Six was nervous, nervous and sleepy. She had waited until everyone else were happily snoring at the Guest Room after yet another cinema and trash food session so she could sneak out to take the elevator to the Penthouse level and inform her employer of her plans.

It wasn’t that she liked reporting to the man of her every movement… but he had given her and her crew a place to stay, wash and eat free of charge with luxuries many wastelanders would _kill_ to get access to. Plus, he paid well and was being _extremely_ lenient about her rearranging the Presidential Suite area to her and her allies’ convenience; not to mention having quite literally _flashed out _Lily’s existence to every casino on the Strip like she and her companions owned the place… and her little plan about making a _Legion spy_ – a top rank Officer, no less - comfortable enough so he would trust her and… maybe… ending becoming one of the family.

Burke would have NEVER allowed her to act with this much freedom while juggling with so many unstable and _potentially dangerous_ possibilities without cutting her wings at the first chance and punishing her audacity to remind her who gave the orders there.

House was proving to be quite understanding and even encouraging when it came to building diplomatic stable relationships with other factions, sometimes even measly complimenting her non-violent policy.

However, he wasn’t so understanding when it came to… listening to some advice.

He was a genius, alright, a two-hundred-sixty-one-year-old genius… but he had spent so much time isolated in this fortress of his that he had a scandalous lack of… _tactfulness_.

He thought that everything could be solved either with caps, feeding up other’s vices or plain firepower. He knew nothing about charity, moral support, goodwill, and respect.

For him, every single human being, regardless of their value as individuals, was nothing but a number. And their reactions, mere statistics.

Either a product of his high intellect, his isolation or a mixture of the two, his chain of thought usually reminded Six more of a machine than a human.

So she merely nodded at his question, allowing him some space so he could digest these notions she had presented to him and start working with his numbers so he saw, through statistics and no mere idealistic advise coming from a “romantic teenager like her”, that she was on the right track.

**“I will admit, miss Sullivan, that your foresight when it comes to echo my very own thoughts regarding adjusting the attitudes of some lesser groups while we wait for an invitation to access Fortification Hill amazes me, truly.”** – House spoke after a while – **“However, there is still the Omertas’ matter, you see. If I remember correctly, which is entirely unnecessary as I tend to file every single conversation I happen to exchange with my employees, I did express my desire for you to investigate their den of vice, yes?”** \- Haughty indifference? Check. Snotty attitude? Check. Old man’s typical paternalist condescendence? Check – **“You see, I've never expected loyalty from them, mind you. A reliably underhanded tribe is just as constant to deal with as one that always run true. But from you, miss Sullivan? This irregularity baffles me and, while I deem your current course of action necessary and even _adequate_… it makes me wonder about your true motivations behind this complicated scheme gaining military support while petting the two-headed Bear AND feeding the Bull at the same time.”**

Six kept her body language and facial expressions under control. Her vitals were taken care of by Yes Man should House’s monitors detected something irregular.

She knew the man could discern if she was lying by merely checking her body temperature, heart rate and sweating. He had done it on their first encounter, when she had attempted to play dumb by being sarcastic about her opinion on the Strip and House’s reply had been an acerbic scoff on being both intelligent enough to cease those games meant for the superfluity of fools that flooded the entire New Vegas.

No use in lying to him… or, in this case, hiding information from him, if he could see through her bodily reactions. He had played with an enormous advantage the first and second times, now she wouldn’t be the fool a third.

Burke had taught her well… too well.

“I want harmless, complacent factions that wouldn’t suspect my true allegiance and think that I’m on their side so I can get granted access to their territories and their markets without having to worry about their spies feeding them that there’s a third faction powerful enough to make both the Bear and the Bull retreat to the West and East respectively.”

**“And which “third faction” would that be, miss Sullivan?”** – the Orwellian entity asked.

“Why, you and your securitrons, Mr. House.” – she replied, not missing a beat – “And what I get out of this? Living as a princess for the rest of my days with whomever I deem cool enough while I help technology, sanitation, education and Internet come back to life again.” – at this, she gave the big screen a comical, saccharine flutter of lashes – “I want to be the most insufferable, soaped, perfumed, well-dressed, spoiled geek brat all over the Mojave Wasteland and knowing that I’ve earned it.” – when she felt this artificially calmed, she could come with such inspirational lies – “And, to achieve that, I ought to make sure that the NCR and the Legion remain blind enough to not taking me to their interrogation rooms or to string me up to a telephone pole whilst I act against their interests.” – yes, let him believe that this was just a matter of saving hide… which, if she was completely honest with herself, wasn’t that far-fetched from the actual truth – “Does that cover any possible questions you might consider about my motivations behind all of this or do you have anything else to ask me?” – she finished, with a motherfucking cherry on top of the biggest pile of crap she had ever sputtered.

The big screen remained silent for a few seconds but, to Six, felt like an eternity.

**“I believe we are starting to speak the same language, you and I, miss Sullivan.”** – House replied, a pleased undertone seeping through his synthetic voice – **“If those are truly your expectations coming out of our business contract, you shall be not disappointed… proving that you do not disappoint me as well.”** – his tone got back to the same haughty note – **“Which takes me back to my original concern: the Omertas.”**

Six inhaled.

“The legionary spy.” – she explained, hating herself immensely by addressing _Zorro_ in such a manner – “He contacted me on the Gomorrah the first time.”

**“Oh?”**

“He also used the rented room of one of his men to get us cleaned from signs of that night’s ruckus.” – she added, hating herself even more for betraying his secrets, but she needed the other one knocked out of the game. He had given her bad vibes – “That tells me that there’s more than one spy lurking on the Strip.”

**“Oh, but those are old news to me, miss Sullivan.”** – House scoffed disdainfully – **“And I am still wondering where are you getting at with this explanation.”**

“The other day I checked with Sarah Weintraub that this man paid rent at her hotel no more since, casually, the day after Benny’s escapade.” – Six explained – “Coincidence? I don’t think so.” – keep you cool, Sulli, keep your cool… - “My guess is that, since I picked up his attention bringing him here, the other man went to cover his position at the Gomorrah, thus… making the Omertas allies with the Legion.” – it was a long shot, but _Zorro_’s later _enthusiastic_ interrogation disguised as curiosity this evening before going to sleep about her comes and goes with the Three Families, had informed her that his trust hung precariously from a leash that, should she tried to strain it more than necessary, would snap in an irreparably way – “I want the Legion trusting and quiet until I’m invited into their territory, but we can leave the Omertas in the dark with their allies by… blocking access to all filed Legion agents to the Strip except my ally. No communication, no further progress. And they will bear you the responsible alone, taking the finger of suspicion off me.”

**“Hmmm…”** – she could tell her plan appealed greatly to the Orwellian man behind the screen when he spoke again – **“Showing a card to hide another in its place. I like such refinement of thought, miss Sullivan. While this course of action will diminish the Strip’s monthly profits down a 7% due to the banishment of Legion clients, giving the Omertas a taste of their own poison would do them well.”** – he acquiesced – **“Very well, you have my blessing. They shall be dealt with later, when your ally deems best to extend his invitation and I’ll have no further need of Caesar’s services.”** – he added, letting her know that she wasn’t walking out her contract this easily – **“Go, and make your journey worth the risk I am assuming on your account.”**

And, with that, Six had gotten outside this verbal and political sparring with her plans and her allegiances intact.

She had taken the elevator back to the Presidential Suite patting herself on the shoulder in triumph… until she had gotten sight of _Zorro_ waiting for her on the corridor like he had done the first time, wearing a pajama that was too short for him, cross-armed and eyeing her with squinted eyes.

Once she got outside the elevator and the doors closed behind her, they observed each other in the gloom, awaiting the other to make a move.

While she wanted to shush his suspicions and touch him, taking his hand or growing a pair and actually giving him a hug so she would feel fully accepted and not this unbearably cautious around him; he remained leaning against the wall, wanting to question her and her intentions, itching to demand answers about her allegiances, about who she truly was, about her message… about her true name.

He wished to know her true name the same she, unbeknownstly, knew his.

He had been wondering why she kept hiding from her allies, why did she sneak out again to, no doubt, meet with Robert House. Was she working for him or for the NCR?

Would she tell him what perks they gave her so he could counteract their offers and raise the stakes? Would she consider working for him? For Caesar?

How much and of what? Money? Sex? Power? Luxury? Protection? Loyalty? Devotion?

What did she _truly_ want?

_Tell me your price, Courier._ – he tried to convey in his look, to coax her closer so she would confess to him what she truly wanted to say. He needed to understand her so he could find a way to keep her _interested_. That was Caesar’s will, and Caesar and he had a deal – _Tell me everything so I can find a way both get what we want._

But she remained silent, a mystery, challenging his intellect… his abilities as an observer, at being manipulative in any possible way until he extricated information he could work with.

Did she want outright manipulation? Someone like _her_? He couldn’t bring himself to believe in such a possibility.

He was about to open his mouth when she smiled.

And when she approached, his brain was working at full speed, trying to discern any familiar pattern in her body language that he could work with.

Nothing.

He almost short-circuited when she made a beeline to the kitchen.

_What…?_

After hesitating, he went after her and didn’t know what to make of the situation when he heard briefly the microwave and she took two steamy mugs out of it, putting one over the table and sitting with the other between her hands.

He sat, first eyeing the mug with suspicion and taking it while looking at her expectantly.

“It’ll help you to sleep better.” – she said as a way of explanation, pointing his mug with her eyes – “My Big Bro used to prepare me these whenever I was insomniac.”

So, she had a brother.

Raising his brows in confusion, he risked a sip.

It was warm brahmin milk with honey.

They drank in silence while the previous tension from moments ago between them slowly dissolved inside warm stomachs.

They returned to the Guest Room, hand in hand.

They slept well.

* * *

Pretty Sarah had awakened that morning with a Hell of a headache.

She will take up Marco’s offer for nightly vodka shots never again.

She knew the man, as mouthy and dastardly as he could get sometimes, only meant well. But that wouldn’t just magically wear off the migraine’s edge.

Or make her forget. About the Fiends. About Cook-Cook and his flamethrower.

Her body would always remind her of that, like a life sentence written all over her skin.

She had survived that inferno once, and she had survived the chems’ withdrawal the monster had used on her, and the threat of infection due to her injuries.

But the scars…

She rose from her bed as soon as the first lights got up the horizon, taking a shower and putting on some hydrating cream so she felt like she was doing everything in her power to avoid looking like a living gecko kebab for the rest of her days. The Followers had instructed her this and she wasn’t one to argue over what educated doctors say.

Then, she went on her daily routine going to wake up Maude, Sweetie, and Jimmy.

Nonetheless, the charred remains of what was left of her eyebrows shot up when she saw both the female prostitutes standing up awake and taking a peek through the open door of Jimmy’s room.

“Hey, what the heck’s going on in here?” – Pretty Sarah demanded as soon as she neared the prostitutes so both of them could hear her.

Sweetie shrugged, not taking her eyes from the slit in the door. Maude, however, was more vocal about the issue.

“The boy says he’s leaving.” – she replied, shrugging as well, taking her battered, though still firm, ass back to her room – “Apparently, he got scared off over some customers yesterday.” – and then, she added smugly – “Serves him well, for accepting such a _low-profile_ clientele as standards.”

Pretty Sarah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Old woman, lots of prejudices.

She found Jimmy packing up in an old suitcase his scarce sets of clothing, soap, trash food and a couple Stimpacks. And she swore she saw the flicker of a six-shooter in-between the fabric.

“Hey, hey, Jimmy, what’s up?” – she asked, attempting a familiar, soothing tone – “Maude says you’re leaving?”

“Damn right I am.” – the young man replied without raising his eyes from his current task.

However, Pretty Sarah was having none of it and she grabbed gently but firmly the boy by his shoulders so he would look her in the eye. There were tears welling up in his eyes.

That was another thing she always procured: that her prostitutes would never have to feel while she was in charge: fear.

“Talk to me, Jimmy.” – Pretty Sarah ordered, smoothing the young man’s platinum blonde-dyed locks with a hand. The boy was the youngest of her employees and, by far, the most vulnerable of all – “Tell me what happened. You know that if one of the clients has treated you poorly…”

But he shook his head fervently, his slight frame shaking with a repressed sob.

“T-the man over there…” – he whispered, stuttering, signaling vaguely the adjacent room with his head – “He… he got a visit yesterday.”

“He asked for your services?” – she asked, not understanding at all and ready too soon to beat the crap out the bastard if he had dared to injure one of her employees.

But the young man shook his head again.

“Shit, Sarah, shit…” – he babbled, tears coming down his boyish, handsome face – “I thought I’ve escaped them… I felt so safe in here… with you taking care of everything…”

“And I am still taking care of everything.” – she assured, but he shook again his head and sobbed – “Tell me what happened and I will make it right.”

“No…” – he lamented – “No, you can’t… even a woman as tough as you… You don’t know what they do… with regular people, lest to say with scum like us… We are a form of sub-humans they made their personal mission to wipe from the face of Earth…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Their Intelligence!” – he exclaimed, taking Sarah’s shoulders as well – “They… they were here. I know the man… you wouldn’t say just by looking at him. He has the face of an angel and a voice like honey, but… the things he has done… the people he has made to disappear… Always scheming, always spying…”

“Spying?”

“The one who uncovered my relationship, if you could call it that, with the Centurion that almost led me six feet under.” – Jimmy said – “The Head of spies. He was here. Yesterday.” – he sobbed again – “I… I thought that was it all for me, but… when he and the other guy got out the room… I was watching how they left from a slight opening in my door and he… he… turned his face to me, gave me one of those looks like ice… I knew he had recognized me and a door wouldn’t present any obstacle to him if he wanted to finish me there and then, and he… smiled, Sarah! He fucking _smiled_!” – he covered his face with his hands, crying and babbling like a scared child – “I didn’t know they were so far up the Colorado! If that psycho has managed to infiltrate New Vegas, there’s no telling how long I’ll take them to take over!”

“Who, Jimmy?” – Pretty Sarah insisted.

“The Legion, Sarah, for Christ’s sake!” – he cried, disentangling from the woman’s grasp – “I’m not staying here anymore! A slave I was once, never again under Caesar’s boot!” – he added, closing his suitcase – “I… I appreciate everything you have done for me. You’re a good, honest woman, Sarah.”

“Wait, Jimmy!” – she exclaimed – “Can’t we work this out? I can protect you!”

However, while the young man had been about to leave, he had stopped, turned his head briefly and had given her the most pained look she had ever seen.

“No, Sarah… nobody can stop the Legion.” – he said – “Not you, not the NCR, not Mr. House… not even that angry Courier everybody talks about.” – he sighed – “Goodbye, Sarah.” – and, with that, he had disappeared downstairs, aiming for the main door of the Casa Madrid Apartments. He never came back.

Disheartened, not knowing what she would say to Marco about a new shortage in the ‘merchandise’, Pretty Sarah had turned to the adjacent room and, after kicking the door open, she suddenly understood.

Every bone, every fiber, every inch of scarred skin in her understood as soon as her eyes took in all the dried crimson that stained the floor, the walls… and even some parts of the ceiling as well where, at the center of such a maddening ravage stood, suspended in the air by several plucked out wires and torn pieces of cloth that had been the bedsheets, was the barely identifiable, butchered up corpse of that pissy old man with the tiny mustache and insufferable clipped accent that had rented a room a few days ago.

In what was left of his mouth, a bloodied ball of cloth sat between teeth that, likely, had muffled his screams while he had been tortured, thus why neither Sarah or the rest of the building had heard a thing. And the improvised gag had been firmly strapped by a leather cord that went around the cranium, grotesquely resembling one of those mouthpieces with a red ball that were so common in those unnamable dens where kinky, fetishist sex was the norm.

The message was as disgusting as the corpse’s staging: the man had been a weak, submissive bitch.

But the message that truly got Sarah’s stomach in knots was the more obvious one, behind the corpse and written in blood all over the opposite wall for anyone literate enough to read:

** _DEGENERATE CANNIBAL SCUM._ **

* * *

The group had departed the next morning with the first lights.

Vulpes felt like he hadn’t rest beyond a few hours, but he preferred it to be this way. If he got used to the luxuries of the Lucky 38, he would have a hard time letting it go as soon as the Legion got hold of the Strip and his Lord would take the Beacon of the Mojave for himself.

That and, inside House’s fortress, he felt watched.

He preferred to travel, to be out in the open, to feel the unmerciful sun glaring all over him so he could keep remembering why he was there, with these people guided by the cause they saw in the energetic teenager with two bullets on the head.

Why he had to _observe_ and _learn_.

He had to keep telling himself that he shouldn’t grow too comfortable around them, that he shouldn’t let these people get near him more than strictly necessary.

But it was a hard task to look at them and only see _targets_.

It was hard to look at the Courier and remind himself that she was a _prospect_ of an ally for the Legion. And not even a safe one.

Vulpes had never been very talkative out of duty… but he was finding himself often chatting amicably with the girl and Veronica – or _Becky_, as their little inner joke kept on going despite himself – while they would be filling him in about their next destination: Jacobstown.

Sitting at the same location as some pre-War settlement the Courier had informed to him had been named Mount Charleston, Jacobstown was a small alpine community high in the mountains West of Las Vegas Alley… and it was almost entirely composed by supermutants.

The idea had not boded well with Vulpes, but he had been quiet about it. Apparently, the Courier and her merry band of misfits had been there a couple of times before and the place was perfectly safe… as long as you observed manners and didn’t look in the eye to any Nightkin you happen to run across, even if they addressed you, you better kept your eyes on the floor while speaking to them, for they didn’t take well being looked at.

Lily came from there and she had no qualms about talking to someone eye to eye… but she, apparently, was an exception; or maybe it was the adapted set of tinted biker goggles she wore. The Courier warned Vulpes about a particular nasty Nightkin who would likely complain about human presence in their territory. She advised him to refrain from answering back under any circumstances if said Nightkin got rude.

Vulpes deemed this good advice. He wasn’t actively looking to engage in a fight with a supermutant over nonsense with him resulting in losing a limb or two if he managed to leave alive at all.

Departing from the Freeside North Gate, they had rounded New Vegas by the Interstate 15, then they had taken the Route 95 up Northwest until they had gotten sight of the old State Route 373 and they had made camp for the night near the intersection between roads.

The Master Frumentarius wasn’t used to walk the Mojave roads, so the experience was new for him. He knew better the land by its crooked slopes, the boulders, the terrain depressions, the canyons… and he soon realized that he had missed walking as a civilian back when he had been stationed at Flagstaff.

“Here.” – the voice of the redhead woman, Cassidy, awakened him from his musings as she handed him a steaming bowl of what they had been cooking during the last half an hour – “You want more, there’s still plenty in the pot.” – her expression changed briefly into an amused grin – “Hope you don’t mind that I’ve _‘spiced up’ _the stew a bit.”

By ‘spiced up’ she meant that she had used some alcoholic beverage – whiskey, unlikely, as she preferred to hoard the stuff all for herself - to take away the tasteless flavor of boiled brahmin dry meat and potatoes without any actual salt as they couldn’t allow themselves to take so much load while traveling.

It wasn’t really bad as the actual alcoholic graduation had evaporated while boiling. In fact, it was way tastier and comforting than the dried rations, trash food and hunting meat he was used to while traveling with his men.

In the Legion, the closest thing you got to _actual_ cooking was heating up the damnable cans of _Pork N’ Beans_ or either roasting up whatever you happened to hunt while traveling.

And he has had less gecko or coyote and more bloatfly and radroach meat that he would bother to recall on his account. Geckos and coyotes tended to hunt in packs, thus making them tougher prey than other lonely critters out there.

And let’s not talk about bighorners. Because if you haven’t at least five strong men with you, the chances of overthrow one of those giants with horns big enough to crack a human skull and a temper to match were already slim if there was a lone ruminant, less when it was a whole herd of them.

So Vulpes allowed himself to enjoy his meal, basking in the familiar feeling of the fire crackling in front of him, his face slightly heated up, the smell of dry wood and the pleasant perennial low hiss of the desert bustling with wildlife around him. He had missed sharing a fire and a meal with people.

Since he had obtained his title as _Summus_ Frumentarius, he had found himself unbelievably alone.

True that he wasn’t the most social person in the world… but he had led a communal life, first with his tribe, later with many other boys in the Legion, since he could remember. He missed being comfortable around people.

He missed belonging somewhere.

Now, many of those boys weren’t his comrades anymore. They were his men.

And, while respected, he knew foot legionaries and low Frumentarii knew better than trust a figure of power.

It wasn’t the same to hold someone as an example to follow than to confide in said person.

Besides his siblings, Vulpes had no real friends among his own. He had been always the weirdo, the know-all; good for leading, inept at forming emotional attachments stretching beyond his family.

His position of power was just a consequence of how truly isolated he was. And the sensation was accentuated by the age gap between him and the rest of high-ranking officers. And these saw him as a child playing with toy soldiers.

Among them, he was the brat, the spoiled kid sticking his tongue at Lanius, the _pretty boy_.

Loud slurping by his left got him again back to the real world.

Tilting his head to the side in a very bird-like manner, Vulpes directed a blank stare to the Courier, whose puffy cheeks full of stew got slim again as she swallowed.

“No table, no manners.” – she said as a way of explanation, smiling – “_Oh no, no, no, no, no._” – she sang, making him recall that odd first night at The Tops playing spies, playful and undulating while being cross-legged as if she were dancing.

Hyperactive as she was, she ate her dinner in-between big mouthfuls, restless legs, humming while directing her sight to the sky full of stars, masticating.

She was definitely _weird_.

However, in her weirdness, there was a feeling of companionship.

Vulpes had taken seconds that night, feeding Rex from time to time as the canine would keep whining and lapping his hands, forearms and pretty much everything he could reach of Vulpes’ face, and had eaten at total ease, wishing his siblings were there.

They would like the Courier.

“Who’s taking the first guard?” – Veronica had asked at some point after dinner, while everybody was cleaning up.

Each one of the components of such odd group of misfits had either groaned or put on a sour face. Apparently, they were used to leave the now broken eyebot, ED-E, on charge since it was the only one that didn’t need any sleep.

Knowing that taking firsts or last turns in guard rotation allowed more hours of uninterrupted sleep, Vulpes had offered automatically. But it hadn’t gone too well.

“I’m not closing my eyes with HIM on charge of guard duty.” – had been the NCR dog’s declaration while glaring at the young man above the rim of his stupid sunglasses.

The Courier had opened her mouth to protest, but the ghoul, to Vulpes’ much bafflement, had spoken up.

“Then, I will share the turn with him.” – he had said, milky brown eyes returning the hard glare the sniper had put on – “After all, we wouldn’t want our sniper’s eyes and brains turning out _less sharp_ due to lack of sleep than they _already_ are, huh?”

The last phrase had been loaded with such amount of vitriolic sarcasm that the NCR dog had first eyed the necrotic with surprise, as if he had been slapped, then it had vanished quickly when he had put his eyes on Vulpes again and had reverted to his default gruff state, arranging his bedroll for the night as if nothing had been said.

Vulpes had remained quiet while everybody else had unrolled their bedrolls – Lily needing _four _of them to take her breadth – and silence had settled between him, Rex and Raul as the ghoul had sat cross-legged by his side, adding some dried wood to the fire from time to time and checking his .44 Magnum revolver.

Vulpes had been assigned a rifle that very morning when the Courier had asked him which weapons he was good with. Knives and machetes had been out of question giving the scrutiny the NCR dog was subjecting him to, so he had asked for a rifle.

And what a _kickass_ rifle he had gotten.

Packing a hard punch and a harder recoil, Raul had called the thing _“Paciencia”_, saying that he better took good care of it, for it had his country’s flag wrapped around the stock for use as a makeshift cheek rest.

Being a pre-War two-hundred-something-year-old ghoul, Vulpes understood that he had been referring to the neighbor Southern country to the Old United States of America: Mexico.

Although he hadn’t a grasp of how the territory had been divided before the bombs had fallen, Vulpes had read quite a lot about the issue and had interacted with quite the number of ghouls to know how the years and the radiation present on their organisms affected them mentally speaking: they usually had seen almost all before and how regular human beings tended to act, speak or react at certain age stages was all the same boring story for them. They missed terribly their lives before the War and usually spoke of things only them and Vault Dwellers could grasp on. Of a very different kind of contamination than radiation _Back When_, like Vulpes’ people used to call it; of Anchorage and how many years “the Good Boys” had spent trying to chase off “the fucking Commies”; of petroleum and governments with power big on a scale unthinkable these days.

Of their families, friends and loved ones charred under the nuclear waves.

Many of them were so intent on forgetting their painful past as citizens of a world that didn’t exist anymore, that they even switched names and professions from time to time.

That would explain the “Miguel” nametag on his jumpsuit. Or not. With ghouls one could never be really sure.

Rex, who had been napping pacifically by Vulpes’ side prickled up his ears, rose from his laying position and, after some sniffing, started to growl after a while when Lily’s snores had filled the sudden silence.

“_Mira, chavo_.” **_(2)_ **– he had heard the ghoul’s raspy whisper by his left – “Nightstalkers.”

Following the skinned old man’s finger, Vulpes had prepared immediately his rifle when he had seen four-legged shadows dancing around the bonfire but no silhouettes whatsoever. His hearing searching for hissing nearby.

“_No se arrimarán a la hoguera_.” – said Raul after watching a moment how the young man kept searching the shadows – “_Esos pinches monstruos no resisten el fuego._” **_(3)_ **

“_¿Y tú cómo sabes eso?_” **_(4)_ **– was Vulpes’ muttered question.

“_¿No te fijaste que siempre salen al anochecer?_” – was Raul’s calmed reply – “_Mira, chavo, yo no sé un carajo de ciencias biológicas ni nada de esas paparruchas, pero sé lo que veo. Esas cosas rehúyen el calor como si las cayera el chahuistle.” **(5) **_

The hissing became unbearable at some point after a long while despite the hybridized abominations between rattlesnake and coyote never coming near the bonfire, and Vulpes angled, aimed and shot once in their general direction, dissipating their ruckus.

“_No, no, chavo_.” – Raul whispered, raising his skinned hands towards the young man, but not touching him – “_Así no_.” **_(6)_ **

Vulpes eyed the ghoul’s hands warily, pondering the offer, until he acquiesced with a nod.

He allowed the necrotic change his posture and his hands around the gun.

“_Te inclinas hacia delante y apoyas el peso sobre el pie y la rodilla, ¿viste?_” – Raul instructed – “_Ahora, apunta y dispara._” **_(7)_ **

He did so and soon he got one of them down.

“Yes!” – he hissed triumphantly without thinking, immediately clasping one hand over his traitorous mouth.

** _“Did I say that you were allowed to speak, boy? Maybe those ten lashes weren’t enough to dissuade you from waggling that insolent tongue of yours. Perhaps if I would make you wear a gag for a while in front of the whole encampment, you’ll finally learn the virtue of silence, wouldn’t you?”_ **

The Snake’s words resonated inside his skull like a litany, correcting him, molding him, chastising him for allowing his guard to slip so easily.

He could feel Raul’s eyes over him until what he felt has heat irradiating from a cheek mere inches away from his.

“So, that’s what turns you on, huh?” – Rose of Sharon Cassidy’s alcoholic breath caressed his left ear as the woman kept speaking in lower tones – “Don’t start jerking off just yet, Tribal Boy. There’s still more of those motherfuckers over there.” – there was a cunning smile adorning her other than that sleepy features as she took her face from over Vulpes’ shoulder and stepped on, armed with her caravan shotgun – “Whaddya say? Wanna test whose’s biggest?” – she asked, stroking her gun in an unserious suggestive manner.

While Vulpes didn’t appreciate her vulgar humor in the slightest, he could appreciate a challenge.

So, he got up and went on a brief Nightstalker hunt with the redheaded woman and Rex on their heels.

They put down a decent number giving how incredibly tough the critters were. He counted four on his own, but soon discovered that the woman hadn’t meant to keep any counting at all, but doing it for sport, mostly.

He could appreciate that as well.

“That wasn’t half bad, eh?” – Cass said with a playful smirk upon her freckled face – “Nothing like some good ol’ target practice to loosen up a stiff neck.”

Vulpes blinked once, unsure at how to take this sudden comradeship and simply kneeling in front of one of the corpses.

“Do you happen to have a knife on you?” – he asked.

“What for?”

“I intend on cutting their tails so I can use them to brew some antivenom with the radscorpion poison glands we’ve collected this afternoon.”

She handed him a combat knife without hesitating. So trusting, this woman.

So _dangerously_ trusting with a _stranger_ like him.

But Vulpes make good on his word and got back to the bonfire with quite the collection of Nightstalker tails under his arm.

Raul and a very awake Boone were awaiting them. And the ex-sniper's frown had increased the very instant he saw Vulpes armed with a knife.

“_Where_ did _you two_ went?” – he demanded as soon as Cass and the other were visible around the fire’s radius, his tone accusatory.

“Oh, you know.” – Cass replied nonchalantly – “Bit of bonding here and there, he told me his sob story, both cried whilst smoking crack and drinking Moonshine until we got radioactive and had some real party with a group of Glowing Ones nearby. Tribal Boy here knows how to shake it pretty raw.” – she added, to Boone’s much disapproval, pointing to an unamused Vulpes with her eyes – “What the _fuck_ do you think, Red Beret?”

Boone’s scowl didn’t diminish in the slightest even when the young man sat next to Raul and, after some verbal exchange in Spanish, he proceeded to show the ghoul and Cass how to brew antivenom.

Boone didn’t participate, watching how the motherfucking albino shit was earning some points with Raul and the drunkard. Should have never trusted the tumbleweed in the first place if she was so ready to cut the _pretty boy_ some slack this soon.

However, the thing that really got on his nerves was when the first watch ended and the redhead announced she was going to share it with Boone, who had already taken the reins as soon as he had heard the earlier shooting.

“_Geez_, even if you don’t trust him, at least you could behave in a less asshole-like fashion.” – Cass reprehended him, sitting by his side as she started dissembling her shotgun to run some maintenance on it – “You’re only making enemies that way and losing points with Six, you know.”

Boone didn’t answer, but his frown deepened. The girlie was important to him, he wanted to take care of her, to protect her. And he couldn’t just do that if everybody else was defending the chalky little shit putting on puppy eyes so he could get closer to her.

And closer he had gotten, to Boone’s endless irritation, when he heard muffled giggles, turn around and found the bastard’s bedroll next to the girlie’s.

They were laying sideways, each one inside their respective bedrolls… but their backs were touching and a slight glow, pale green hers, warm amber his, emanated from the interiors.

She was giggling and shifting inside her bedroll while he was curled in a fetal position, his face occult to the sight as his right arm moved slightly while he kept typing.

They were communicating through the _damned_ devices attached to their wrists and she, apparently, was having so much fun with what he was saying to her.

Boone wished he could just zip-trap him inside that bedroll and set it on fire so he would burn down to a crisp like a fucking _empanadilla_.

_Stupid_ albino shit.

* * *

They arrived at Jacobstown with the dusk coating the skies in stormy gray.

Vulpes had never seen snow, so this was a first time for him, more used to the endless oceans of sun-kissed golden sands and clay-reddened rocks from his homeland and almost the five years of campaign against the NCR here, in the Mojave.

The first snowflake that landed over his cheek gave him a pinprick of chillness that wasn’t quite unpleasant. It reminded him of the ice cubes he liked so much on suck from time to time when he asked for a glass filled with them to have his Nuka inhumanly cold on any of the casinos on the Strip.

He breathed on the chilled air and found himself oddly pleased when he could see his own body heat disappearing on gusts of cloudy puffs.

He could easily get used to this.

However, what he knew he couldn’t get used under any circumstances was the constant presence of gigantic muscled silhouettes lurking at every corner of the old holiday resort. There were too many of them, taller than the distant Monster of the East, who was a man easily EIGHT feet tall and with muscles enough to tackle a bighorner on his own.

Taller than even Lily who, apparently, must had been a very small, very old woman before her transformation to be, minimum, half a head smaller than the rest of her brethren.

Vulpes rarely felt intimidated, for his job had gotten him in many unsuspected situations that he has had to keep his cool in order to get out of them alive and in one piece.

But this… _nest_ full of mutated creatures that were once humans but didn’t reason on a same level was, if nothing, unbelievable… _frightening_.

He would like to see Lanius here, dealing with these monsters in a non-violent way.

_Ha!_ What was he thinking? Lanius didn’t have an approximated idea of how diplomacy worked, for he tended to deal with everything and _everyone_ either with his _sword_ or his _dick_.

Sometimes even with _both_, depending on his mood.

Vulpes would like seeing him here, alone, dealing with a single of these beasts. He imagined the _Legatus_’ brains – if he had _any_ left inside that _thick_ skull of his – splattered over the snow, learning his first and last lesson about _shutting his trap_ for once.

Bitching mentally about the _Legatus_ helped Vulpes a great deal not wanting to turn heel and start running down the hill they had previously climbed up to get as far from this place as possible.

The Courier, however, seemed completely at ease here. She even returned the greeting a peculiar supermutant, not a Nightkin if his muddy skintone was any indication, directed at her.

“Welcome back to Jacobstown, Six.” – and the burly, bulbous beast managed a smile. Of the few supermutants Vulpes had the misfortune to see in all his young life, he had never witness one imitating such a human gesture so well, not even Lily, who needed that leather mouthstrap behind her teeth to avoid her facial muscles sag down enough to impede speech – “Everything alright, I hope?”

“Hi, Marcus!” – she replied cheerfully, as if talking with the massive beast was the same as talking to an old friendly acquaintance. Watching her interact with the massive thing was like watching a small child chatting amicably with the monster under her bed – “Yep. Can’t complain. Got a nice stream in caps lately and a place to stay, so we’re scraping drifters no more. You?”

“Things have been quiet enough since you convinced those NCR mercs to quit the harassing.” – the beast, Marcus, nodded appreciatively – “No bighorner disappearances and no blocking in our usual trade route, business is getting normal again with the few caravans that dare come up here.” – unnatural, pale eyes gleamed – “The town treasury is going so well we’ve been investing in some saws, axes, hammers and nails to start carpentry work around here. Building needs some repairing on the East Wing.”

“Oh, cool!” – she exclaimed and, to Vulpes’ much bafflement, she looked like she _truly meant it_ – “Happy to be of help.”

The supermutant nodded.

“If you’re looking for Doc Henry, he’s still inside the Lodge.” – he said upon seeing Rex by her side – “Man’s been working night and day on the cure since you brought back that chewed-up Stealth Boy. Been asking for Lily, though.”

“Brought her along, so don’t you worry, I’ll see what does the good Doc have in mind for her.” - she answered, waving her hand as she bid him goodbye – “Thanks for letting me know, Marcus.”

And, with that, the merry group passed through Jacobstown’s ample snowy courtyard and got inside the building.

They were handed several sets of keys pertaining to different rooms they could stay in by another supermutant while the eyes of the ashen Nightkin observed the new arrivals from the shadows.

A good part of the group went upstairs with all the bulk to ready the rooms and distribute who would be with who. Vulpes remained with the Courier and Rex whilst the NCR dog decided to remain as well like a silent, persistent pest, intent on not allowing them to be alone more of what was strictly necessary.

The infamous Doctor Henry ended being a grumpy, tactless old man that distilled a heavy smell of chemical components and whose priorities regarding his compromise with the Courier about helping her cyberdog clashed diametrically with his evident interest in running an experiment of sorts with Lily. Not that his assistant was much better - a gruffy ghoul woman that went by the name of Calamity - whose body odor could compete with a rotting dump full of rancid corpses. Not even Raul smelled _that_ bad.

“No.” – had been the Courier’s firm denial, planting her ridiculous stature, arms crossed, in front of the stubborn old man – “First, you cure my dog. Then, Lily and I might talk over that experiment of yours.” – and her tone had been definitive – “Should she say _‘no’_, that will be all. Are we clear on this?”

The man had attempted to argue with her over the issue to no avail as the Courier, Vulpes noticed, could be quite verbose and as stubborn as her interlocutor when she was after something. And that something was now Rex’s recovery.

Impressive… for a girl so small and unthreatening as her.

“Fine.” – the old man had grunted, clearly displeased – “Instruct the canine to hop up that gurney and show me what you've brought so that I can analyze its potential.”

Rex, exhausted as he was from today’s long journey, couldn’t jump and Vulpes helped him to get on the gurney, earning a tired, grateful lap. It was true that the animal only resisted out of loyalty and raw willpower.

“Let's take a look...” – he heard the doctor saying, extracting the still fresh organ, anchoring it with pinned wiring and running some commands in a nearby terminal computer – “Hmmm… exceptional synapse responses... descended from some type of cattle dog, I imagine.”

Six eyed Vulpes, waiting for confirmation.

“It will pose an issue given that the donor was female and the receptor is male?” - he asked, suddenly concerned that he might have made a miscalculation he hadn’t think about before. The sniper’s eyes burned through his nape as he finished his sentence.

“Not to my knowledge.” – the old man replied dryly as if the question itself were unbelievable stupid – “If you want me to transplant this brain into Rex, he'll become more durable.” – he informed the Courier.

Vulpes swallowed an arrogant smile. The Legion bred the toughest canines _ever_.

First eyeing Rex, then the doctor, Six nodded slowly.

“You might want to take a seat. This will take awhile.” – informed the doctor as he injected what undoubtedly was some sort of anesthetic to keep the dog asleep during the intervention.

Six sat over a stool as she put her face at the same level as the canine’s, scratching him behind the ears. Rex reciprocated lapping tenderly at her cheek, his eyes closing slowly.

“That’s it, Rexie, gimmie kissies. Gimmie lots of kissies.” – she whispered, her big eyes watering – “You’re a good dog, such a good dog…”

Once Rex was unconscious, she rose from her seat and went to hug the midsection of the NCR dog. There were tears in her eyes and Vulpes experienced a sudden feeling of being an uninvited guest for such an intimate moment.

However, instead of making him feel out of place, he felt _angry_, and he couldn’t begin to fathom why.

“Do you think he will retain his personality, Boone?” – he heard her murmuring, still between the _stupid_ sniper’s arms – “Do you think he… will recognize me?”

Vulpes hated the way the other man’s voice sounded. Soothing, calming, understanding.

“Sure thing, girlie, sure thing.” – he lulled her – “You’ll see, the pup’s gonna lick the Hell outta you as soon as he opens his eyes.”

Vulpes didn’t remain to keep listening to this sentimental crap, so he got upstairs and found, unsurprisingly, that he had been assigned to share a room with Raul.

He directed a curt nod to the ghoul’s direction and locked up himself in the bathroom, taking a cold shower as there wasn’t a working heated water system in there, while he willed his unwarranted anger to cool off.

He wasn’t being childish and he didn’t give a crap about the girl, the dog or any of them.

This was a job. Nothing more.

* * *

That morning inside Camp McCarran, Sergeant Daniel Contreras had awakened to yet another of Lieutenant Boyd’s searchings through his stuff. The search, per usual, had yield nothing, but Boyd was in a shitty mood today, so she had confiscated a rifle. A stupid rifle. Bitch didn’t know what to do to put him before a martial court for _‘misplacing NCR armament and other goods’_, but Daniel knew how to stay ahead.

She wanted to catch him red-handed, she'll have to do it better. Much better.

So, the Sergeant had opened the supply shack that morning whistling a tune playing on the radio while plying himself with some sweet coffee with brahmin milk. Even with the Lieutenant’s suspicions and tiresome searchings, business was still good.

However, that notion shifted very quickly when, around 01:00 PM after lunch, the door of the supply shack opened. A huge silhouette casting a long shadow from the entrance, blocking the sunlight, stepped inside and closed the door behind.

Soon, a rotten stench had permeated the whole compound.

“Sergeant Contreras?” – a raspy, very ghoulish voice asked – “I was told I could find you here.”

“And you are?” – Daniel asked, taking in the multiple weapons neatly folded around every inch of clothing and rippling rotten muscles of the redhead ghoul in front of him and knowing very well that nobody would hear him scream should said ghoul adopted a hostile attitude.

“Not important.” – the necrotic replied coldly – “But I believe this letter will tell you everything you need to know.” – he added, extending a folded envelope.

Daniel took it without uttering a word, opened it, read it and turned paler than an albino molerat.

“W… what do you want from me?” – he dared to ask in a barely audible whisper.

The ghoul’s milky blue eyes hadn’t blinked even once since he had entered by that door.

“Free and total access to the Strip.” – was all he said – “I want to take a good look on the field first.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "Yummy."  
(2) - "Look, lad."  
(3) - "They won't come closer to the bonfire. Those fucking monsters cannot stand fire."  
(4) - "And how do you know that?"  
(5) - "Didn't you notice that they always get out by nightfall? Look, lad, I know shit about biosciences and all of that nonsense, but I know what I see. Those things shirk from heat as if a plague fell upon them."  
(6) - "No, no, lad. Not that way."  
(7) - "You incline yourself forwards taking all the weight to your foot and knee this way, you see? Now, aim and shoot."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: lengthy chapter again. Now we're seeing how the dynamics flow inside our group and a bit of character development for Boone and the mystery that Lily and Raul are. Vulpes is not amused... yet. Give him some time, he's a hard nut to crack ;)  
Hope you're enjoying the characters' interactions and how they're slowly opening to have one more soul to the call (yep, Silent Hill reference, don't judge me). I'll try to actualize this story sooner than this chapter took this time. Still pondering on some ideas I might use and some I might not... yet.  
This is a Slow Burn, so don't expect Six and Vulpes being all over each other out of the blue. First, there's friendship and real interest on the way.  
See ya and thank you for the new reviewers and Kudos! <3 You make this humble writer so happy T_T


	12. When a dead man walks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains political controversy (it might offend some people) and unhealthy comparisons between ideologies you might or not identify with.
> 
> I'm not trying to "indoctrinate" anyone or to be deliberately disrespectful. I am simply following Fallout Lore and taking a guess of how both sides of the same armed conflict would view their respective enemies. Thus I am talking about Communism, how the Anchorage conflict might have soured political relations between Canadians and Americans and the like. I'm not sugar-coating it. Read this as it was intended: as a work of fiction and nothing more.

* * *

Six had gotten very little sleep that night.

Sandwiched between Cass and Veronica as the three of them could squeeze in the king-sized bed of the room they had been assigned, she had spent a good hour, first attempting to contact _ Zorro _through the chat with no luck so far, and then she had started to talk with Yes Man, checking on the AI's progress regarding vocabulary and tactfulness in a conversation.

And, she had to admit, the AI learned quickly.

** _01:55 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Hey, Sulli? :D _

Six repressed a long-suffering sigh. Yes Man had started to call her that some time ago and she hadn't the heart to tell it to stop.

It brought lots of memories to her. Sweet, incredibly painful memories.

** _01:56 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Yeah? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Out of all the movies in your Database… what's your favorite? _

Six's brows furrowed. That was a question she hadn't been asked since… since she was a child.

She remembered the movie, how countless times her Big Bro and Big Sis had humored her infantile, girlish infatuation over a deceased music star from the past and had endured the same old holotape over and over again with her between the two, her head over Big Sis' knees as she would comb her hair and her feet over Big Bro's as he would tickle her from time to time.

And she would take both of their hands and join them.

It had been perfect. They had been the parents she barely remembered.

The ones who had died fighting for a lost cause.

Big Bro had battled for the same cause, and he hadn't been very proud of what he had managed to accomplish during his serving years. Many quit while still retaining all their limbs attached and some semblance of sanity, he hadn't been different. It hadn't mattered that his little sister and wife had been both proud of him, something had always weighted down his usually cheerful disposition.

He had been a good man hunted by memories of the battlefield and dead comrades he would never speak of. Not even with the love of his life.

Now, she knew how that felt like. For Boone and she would wear that same distant, hardened expression from time to time.

** _01:58 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Gotta lots of favorite movies, Yes Man. _

She didn't want to go in there. Not yet.

It still hurt too much.

So much that she hadn't worked out the courage to open the old chats with Big Bro and Big Sis to read their old messages, to hear the audios and see the images attached.

Not since Vault 5. Not since Burke.

** _01:59 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Is it the one you have reproduced the most with the video player? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ What? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ By statistics, the movie you have played more often, if your Pip-Boy's memory serves as an example, is the file called _ ** _Labyrinth.mp4_ **

Six blushed furiously. This goddamned AI?! So unbelievable nosy!

** _02:00 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Shit, Yes Man. Would you stop rummaging through my bloody stuff? Please? With a fucking cherry on top? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Why do you curse so much? D: _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ Because you're pissing me off, damnit! There are just some things you're not supposed to know about a person if said person doesn't want to tell you about them! _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D: _ ** _ Oh, sorry, I didn't know I was being intrusive again! :( _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ Well, you are. _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D: _ ** _ Sorry! T_T _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Okay, okay, just… even if you, in fact, know things about me or any other person, simply don't mention them unless I - or the other person - feel like telling you. _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D: _ ** _ You mean… that is acceptable to omit the truth in order to be polite? _

Six sighed with exasperation.

** _02:06 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Not just to simply be polite, Yes Man, but to take into account the other person's feelings. You might hurt said person's feelings by throwing them your knowledge of them to their face. _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Did I… did I hurt your feelings? :( _

Six gave the question some consideration. Did Yes Man's knowledge of many of her preferences hurt her… or were _the memories attached _to those preferences what truly hurt?

** _02:08 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ I don't know. _

She received lots of blushing, crying and kissing emojis in a row, as if the AI were attempting to convey _actual _feelings in those cute mood characterizations.

In fact, lately, Yes Man had been quite busy modifying the emoji chart, visually adapting the small icons to the default smiley face the AI had shown on their first encounter, when it had been confined inside the memory of a pirated securitron.

Now, said smiley had developed a range of characterizations that varied from happy and sad to things more specific as _blushing pouty_.

Six bet any scientific worth their salt would literally _kill _for having the opportunity to watch how and advanced AI attempted to imitate human responses and to being able to access said AI's database.

But she wasn't any scientific. She was a courier.

And not even a particularly good one.

However, her musings were interrupted as soon as she noticed the alert of new messages on the upper right corner of the Pip-Boy's interface.

** _02:11 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Shouldn't you be sleeping? _

Six bit her lower lip. Vero, by her left, rolled onto her and quickly took her face away from the slight green brightness, muttering incongruent groans.

Waiting a full minute until she was sure the Scribe wouldn't stir from her sleep, the girl typed back. Her heart racing with a vengeance inside her ribcage.

** _02:13 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI: _ ** _ Shouldn't you? _ _  
_ ** _Fox: _ ** _ I merely need six hours of sleep to be fully rested. You, on the other hand, I wouldn't be so sure if this morning was any demonstration of your endurance versus lack of sleep. _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Bleh. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Oh, I wasn't the one asking for "five more minutes" the very instant your own alarm started beeping. _

Was he… _ teasing _her?

Six didn't know why, but the notion made her blush furiously while there was some odd fluttering inside her tummy that made her blush going from pink to scarlet.

** _02:14 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI: _ ** _ Shuddup. Was your fault. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ My fault? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Yeeep. I would have got my nine-hour beauty sleep if you weren't such a chatterbox. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ I was under the impression that you found my palaver at least entertaining enough to keep your eyes open for nearly three hours in the morning. However, if you want me to stop talking, just say the word and I shall not keep you any longer. _

His words gave Six some pause. It had happened to her before that, due to lack of voice inflections and body language, the person on the other side of the chat would take her words too seriously and end offended or worse: hurt.

She neither wanted to offend or to hurt him. She should have used some emojis to clarify that she was jesting as well.

Or weren't they simply jesting?

** _02:15 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Hey, I wasn't even half-serious. I just find it funny that you talk so much through the chat while you keep mostly to yourself while we're traveling, that's all. You shall talk to me as long as you wish, okay? :) _

He didn't respond for a while, and that got her _really _nervous. Just when she thought she had made some progress with him… there was always this uncertainty, this tension between them that would revert things to count zero.

She didn't want to screw up, she just wanted to be friends… but his sometimes remote, sometimes defensive disposition didn't make things any easier.

He could be interesting, well-versed in some types of literature and even entertaining at some points… but she wasn't ignorant of the fact that he didn't trust her more than strictly necessary.

And he didn't trust her friends one bit. He would reply to Vero's amicable chat and indulge Raul in some Spanish bantering… but all of that was just a front.

He wasn't comfortable around them yet, and Boone's distrust and persistent bullying did nothing to alleviate the general tension inside the group.

He needed to trust them and the rest needed to accept him for this to work.

Shit, was he going to answer, or did she had managed to piss him off now?

** _02:21 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Very well. _

Whew.

** _02:22 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ I have a question, though. _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Shoot. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Are you going to tell me what, exactly, do you intend to get out of all of this? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Of what? _ _  
_ ** _Fox: _ ** _ Don't feign ignorance, Courier, it doesn't suit you. _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Would you stop calling me "Courier"? It's a job, not a name. _ _  
_ ** _Fox: _ ** _ And your name is…? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ It's Six. You know it very well. _ _  
_ ** _Fox: _ ** _ That is not even a name, it is a number. And you know it very well. _

Wordy smartass.

** _02:24 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Would you believe me if I tell you that I don't remember my real name? _ _  
_ ** _Fox: _ ** _ No. _

For fuck's sake… were all Legion spies this unbelievable suspicious of _everything _in general?

** _02:25 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Well, it's the truth. I don't remember my own name, okay? Talk to me again after some mob boss attempts to blow your head off and we'll see about your thoughts on such a kick in the head. _

She knew she sounded defensive, but she was talking to him like, really normal and cool? And he had started to talk like an _asshole_.

If her abilities at making friends were plain _awkward_, his' were near to _nonexistent_.

Would he have any friends in the Legion? Like… _ best friends _and all?

Six suddenly felt sad thinking that House might be right and _ Zorro _wouldn't want to be friends with a girl.

Cass and Vero had told her that legionaries _despised _women, after all.

** _02:27 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ I see I have offended you. I apologize. _

All of a sudden, her destructive thoughts dissipated.

He… had just _apologized_? Did legionaries _truly apologize_?

Or was it just another spy tactic…?

Okay, maybe now the one being an _asshole _was her. After all, she hadn't been so different from him a few months ago.

Distrusting him would only make him more and more defensive, and Boone was already to blame for _ Zorro's _absence at dinnertime today. Raul said he had been reading so he hadn't wanted to disturb him, but Six had known better.

Besides, she had been the one who had invited him over. Now she deals with it.

** _02:29 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ It's okay. The others have also tried to "make me remember" by throwing at me endless questions that I cannot answer at all. They still try, from time to time; and though I appreciate that they care enough to keep trying… I can't help but feel pretty stupid. _

Was she really telling him this? Couldn't she be more _pathetic_?

Once upon a time, amidst the smoldering ashes of Nipton, he had been crystal clear on the Legion's disgust upon betrayal and _weakness_.

And THIS was weakness.

** _02:30 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Why should you feel stupid for lacking answers in the face of, I assume, a brain trauma that has rendered you amnesiac? _

Her heart skipped a bit upon reading that. Was he… trying to _reasoning _through her situation, like he had done in Nipton and the massacre he had unleashed?

Was he trying to make her _feel better _as he had done that time?

Or was she chasing shadows, liberally interpreting intentions to suit her needs, her _perception _of _him_?

Did she really know _who _she had invited to partake in her - to this day - group's harmonic balance?

** _02:32 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Dunno. I admit that I'm just amnesiac with silly things like names, dates, or time perception. It's weird… and a bit annoying, but the Pip-Boy has helped me to keep track of faces, cities and tasks so far, so I'm not complaining. _

A few minutes passed in silence and, while her hyperactive brains raced, her eyes started blinking more than necessary, a gentle notion of getting sleepy slowly sitting over her.

It felt exhausting having to sort out her impulsive decisions at this ungodly hour, and his ambiguous manners did nothing to quieten her many worries over having made this time a poor decision regarding her allegiances. None of her other companions were as… _ intense _as _ Zorro _was, even through an innocuous virtual chat where he couldn't make use of his physical charms.

Which were many, she had to concede.

** _02:38 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ I have one last question. _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Hmmm? _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ You mentioned a brother. Can't you contact him so he can answer all your questions regarding your identity? _

Where her heart should have been, a heavy marble tile sunk on her chest in its place.

** _02:40 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ I don't know where he is… I don't even know if he's still alive or if he would recognize me after so much time. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Then, why not using your Pip-Boy to contact him? _

Tears welled up in Six's eyes. She had tried that. Lots of times.

Her Big Bro's device was either broken or those messages hadn't reached him… and they, at this point, _ should _have reached him.

Maybe he was in possession of his Pip-Boy no more… maybe a raider or a Prospector had it.

** _02:41 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI: _ ** _ It's… not that easy. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ When did you two part? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ … When I was twelve. Can we please stop having this conversation? _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Did something happen? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ I don't want to talk about it. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Why? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ It's personal. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ So personal you prefer to remain in the dark so you don't have to confront him? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ I don't know what are you insinuating, but I love my Big Bro so much I'll gladly cut both my arms so I could see him one last time, okay? Now, this conversation is officially over, so I bid you goodnight. _

She was about to close the chat when another message popped out.

** _02:43 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ I didn't mean to upset you. Goodnight. _

A single tear cascaded down her left temple to her hidden bullet scars.

But she had more hidden scarring than those mementos of an old life, with old duties and old sins her memory hadn't wiped out despite all.

For that, she knew it now, was her penance for her cowardice: to recall every last of her misdeeds and forget those people she had once held close to her heart.

She had been so scared of what Burke or even Tenpenny would do to her if she didn't comply that she forgot how to be a decent human being. Benny's happenstance had been her ultimatum.

She ought to stop allowing herself to keep being a marionette in the hands of powerful men and start doing what was _right _instead of what was _easy_.

However, she was still scared… so scared…

Scared of Burke's veiled promises of _retribution _and _pain_, scared of what her friends would think of her once they learned who she truly was.

Scared of what a _ disappointment _she would turn to be should her Big Bro learned about everything.

Scared… of what this suspicious, irritable, questioning Legion boy would do once he knew about her _betrayal _to her old unit… about her _cowardice_, bending to the orders of a bad man that held no fondness, nor respect for her wellbeing.

She was a rat. A miserable, _ lonely _rat.

She fell asleep re-reading her last conversation with _ Zorro_, allowing Yes Man to fill the Pip-OS with smileys, hearts, smooches and words of encouragement.

Funny that the only entities that loved her unconditionally were, up to some degree, cybernetic.

She missed ED-E and Rex so much right now.

* * *

_ With the years passing, the climate shifting and global warming had given way to longer days of scorching sun and skin-searing sandstorms that, ultimately, had ended replacing the familiar long nights of frostbitten moonlights and blizzards… but, for him, every time he dared to close his eyes, his mind came back to Anchorage. _

_ That was mainly why he never slept. _

_ His nervous system had endured painful years of adaptation until the need for sleep had been almost completely eradicated. _

_ Almost. _

_ He required less than ten minutes on a daily basis to complete the cycle, to reset his brains so his treacherous system wouldn't disconnect with no warning. _

_ Ten minutes that, with each day of each year of each blooming century passing, he still found to be a necessary evil to endure for survival. Ten minutes that would transport him many lifetimes back, when he still had recognized himself in the mirror. _

_ He recalled the operation, the many details that were left out, the many men who lost their lives at the hands of the Communists. Strategy unclear, orders clear: to reclaim the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, to liberate the city. _

_ General Chase and his crazy battalion of damned men against Jingwei and his Crimson Dragoons. _

_ Red Menace everywhere. _

_ Eleven years of occupation, months of preparation. The so-called Sino-American War. _

_ Commies, Canadian trash, shady politics, the mission, the oil… long live America. _

_ The memorial still held ground back on Washington DC, he hadn't visited it again since… _

_ Everything was filled with memorials these days, mementos of dead people on dead History. _

_ Red Menace everywhere. _

_ The Anchorage Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson Memorial… _

_ A man coughing from the other side of the glass, a girl screaming. _

_ The man collapsing on the floor surrounded by his own fluids and burned skin, the girl punching the unyielding crystal. _

_ The man died. The girl cried once and never cried again. _

_ The man had left behind promises never fulfilled. The girl had tried to become a reflection of such promises up to that point just because she had loved him so much it had been her burden and curse to bear. _

_ The man became a shadow cast upon the girl. The girl became a monster. _

_ Then, the radio had become silent after that as well. _

_ Just like he was silenced a long time ago. Chase had silenced him. _

_ Red Menace everywhere. _

_ A simulation becoming real, a training morphing into pathology, an experiment going terribly wrong… for the last couple of centuries had been quite an experience to live in fear. _

_ That's what it means to be a slave. That's what it means to live under indefinite Martial Law. _

_ Nobody had come to tell him otherwise. Nobody said that the war was over. _

_ Commies, mutants… for him, everything ended being the same. _

_ Red Menace everywhere. _

_ The explosions, the heat, the bones through muscle and peeling skin… many mushroom clouds and burning filth after, and he recognized the man in the mirror no more. Instead, the eyes that watched him from the other side were the eyes of a corpse. _

_ Paranoia. Crushed hopes burning into his rotting breath. _

_ Hands drenched in blood and copper corrosion. Cries of children buzzing through his ears, constant whispers echoing in his memories, bearing sins tattooed all over his skin. _

_ Purging people like one would purge vermin. _

_ Never doubt, never question, never look back, never talk back. _

_ Never disobey a direct order. _

_ There wasn't a plan anymore, no superiors to obey, no country to fight for, no more snow in Anchorage… only eternal, radioactive sands. _

_ Trapped within his darkest nightmare, the memories he didn't want to remember, every day ten minutes felt like ten years coming back from the North, crossing the Eastern Coast, marching on forever. _

_ A soldier without a cause to defend, a dog without a master to follow. _

_ Chase would chase him forever. The compulsion, the simulation, the conditioning, the madness, the sadness… and the contract. _

_ Chase would give him orders, even from the grave. _

_ The Red Menace was gone, but not the fear. _

_ His orders would always keep him prisoner. His reality permanently warped into vain hopes and resignation, his soul empty, his mind never drifting away. _

_ Sometimes he wished the Red Menace would have just swallowed him. Sometimes he fancied himself a whole man again. _

_ But then, he would awake from those ten minutes his decaying nervous system required so much, and find a corpse of a man in a corpse of a country seeking void desires from compassion-devoided masters. _

_ And compassion shall he not show. Compassion would not save her, not after this. _

_ He had seen it, the city of vices alight anew. Enchanting lights illuminating the darkness from miles ahead, cybernetic security, walls made of garbage and waste. Everything surrounded by an impoverished population composed mainly of outlandish Republican soldiers, farmers, merchants, chem addicts, beggars and sewer dwellers. _

_ Should he wanted, he could start sowing the asphalt with their corpses and none would be the wiser. _

_ Too easy. _

_ Old master for an old city, new customers for a new regime coming from the West. Old empires emerging from the ashes of forgotten History, rearing its hungry head from the East. _

_ A different America, a different Red Menace, but the same rules applying over the chessboard. _

_ War never changes. _

* * *

Veronica Santangelo had emerged from the bed that morning feeling good.

She had gone to the bathroom to have a chilling-though-invigorating shower and had stylized her short hair with a few golden hairpins she had found on the Lucky 38's Master Bedroom before their departure.

Taking care of her appearance made her feel not only pretty, but also happy with herself.

She brushed her teeth, took care of a few stray hairs out of place and returned to the bed to shake Cass and Six awake.

The former had risen from the bed stinking of whiskey, bearing puffy eyes and a very pleasant loving attitude she had demonstrated when she had danced with Veronica to the bathroom's door before putting her pretty ass on the toilet.

The latter had groaned twice, first ignoring Veronica's gentle prodding to get her awake, then mumbling miserably something about not feeling very well.

Worried, Veronica had rubbed her temples and shoulders should this was yet another of her headaches and had abandoned the room with Cass without rolling up the blinds.

Nonetheless, when they had found their way to the resort's kitchen and, after some waiting, every single member of their ragtag group had put in an appearance save Rex, which was still recovering from his neurosurgery, Six and _ Jimmy_; Veronica had frowned, starting to suspect that something smelled _fishy _there.

When she asked Raul about the young man and the ghoul had responded that he had left him sleeping on his bed, Veronica's frown had deepened.

She was having none of that.

"Cass, Arcade." – she had called after finishing their respective breakfasts – "Come upstairs and help me with those two. Can't have them in bed all day."

"Leave the girlie be and don't even bother with the albino." – had been Boone's nonchalant reply between munches of bighorner meatloaf, courtesy of Lily – "He's not worth your time."

That had ruined Veronica's good mood. In fact, that had _pissed her off _a great deal.

"First of all, he has a _ name_, Boone." – she had snapped – "Second: he's like, what? Six, seven years younger than you?"

"By NCR standards, thus _my _standards, he's legally an adult." – the sniper replied arrogantly – "Your point is invalid."

Raul snorted humorlessly while he limited himself to shake his head from side to side as Cass rolled her eyes and Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"For fuck's sake, Boone!" – Veronica exclaimed – "This mind-fuck you have over any possible healthy, breathing young man being Legion is getting out of control!"

"That's rich." – was Arcade's sarcastic adding – "I'm flattered you think I'm also included in that _ 'young men' _ category of yours, Veronica." – when the Brotherhood Scribe turned to him with a surprised look on her face, he added as a way of explanation – "Didn't think he hasn't subjected me to his _interrorgating _crap already?" – he scoffed – "Followers' lab coat, glasses and _ actual _regard for human life don't mean a thing when you commit the mistake of playing the smartass part by quoting Cato over there and there." – he added, pointedly staring at Boone, whose fierce scowl masked very effectively the shame he must be feeling at the moment.

That or the man was a living _golem _made of pure granite.

"Have it your way." – said sunglassed golem grunted, picking his coffee mug with more force than was truly necessary – "Don't come later saying I didn't warn you."

Frustrated, Veronica turned heel to the stairs when a skinned hand grabbed her by one of her robe's sleeves.

"Don't touch the lad unless he specifically allows you to do so, _ Señorita _ Veronica." – she heard Raul's raspy voice whispering – "He doesn't like it."

Eyeing the Mexican ghoul with a blank expression, Veronica nodded slowly, taking in his serious undertone.

"_Divide et impera_." ** _(1) _ **– said Arcade solemnly once the three of them were upstairs – "Who gets who?"

"Cass and I will be taking care of Jimmy." – was Veronica's reply, to Arcade's much relief as he wasn't feeling like having a… _ urgh _ … _ "man-to-man" _conversation with a boy he barely knew – "You deal with Six. She will hear you out if you try to reason with her."

Once they separated, the redhead woman giggled.

"Oh, I'm so looking forward to seeing the face Tribal Boy puts on when we'll be breaking on his sanctuary." – she murmured malignly like the cat that got the cream.

"Don't overdo the teasing." – Veronica warned – "Remember he's not used to any of us. Less _ your _ antics."

"Aw, come on. The kid could use a good tease." – Cass pouted – "Either that or he ends becoming yet another bittercup like the one with sunglasses downstairs. And I've already had enough with one sticking around souring my whiskey, thank you very much."

They stopped in front of the room's door.

"Don't touch him or invade his personal space, okay?" – Veronica warned one last time, her hand finding the doorknob.

"Alright, alright, Lil' Riding Punch." – Cass replied, briefly pinching the other's cheek playfully - "Whatever you say."

Then, the smaller brunette opened the door with more force than necessary while exclaiming cheerfully:

"Alright, it's time to get out of the bed, Sleeping Beauty!"

The room was nearly pitch black and the only sign that there was, indeed, someone inside, was the brief brisk movement both women detected coming from a rumpled vortex of covers and clothes over a mattress that formed an almost impenetrable fortress over a furled silhouette.

Veronica didn't miss a beat when she went to the window and, with an intent noisy pull, she rolled up the blinds, allowing warm light to seep all over the room. After that, she came back to the occupied bed, where a long, chalky hand was grabbing one of the pillows to get it inside the covers' warm fortress.

Veronica squatted to the same visual height where a small gap opened amidst fabric rumpling to reveal a pair of sleepy blue eyes that were eyeing her distrustfully.

"Good morning, Jimmy." – the Scribe said, smiling – "Are you gonna get out there any time soon?"

The blue eyes frowned and the fabric gap closed stubbornly.

"Cute." – was Cass' sarcastic input before picking the sheets' ends and yanking at them.

Immediately, an outraged gasp following ensued.

"What do you think you are doing?!" – were the first words the young man deigned to direct at them, yanking at the sheets as well to prevent the redhead to take them with her.

"Not a morning person, are you?" – Cass teased.

"Get out!" – he hissed.

"No." – she retorted, yanking at the sheets with more force – "_ You _ get out that bed, Tribal Boy."

She managed to take with her most of the covers, leaving a very angry, red-eared _ Zorro _clinging at the last remaining sheet for dear life as he directed a nasty glare to the two women behind a curtain of disheveled white curls.

He could be taller than the two of them but right now, to their eyes, he was but a child.

A six-feet-tall, fibered to the last muscle, angry child who knew how to use a weapon.

"Get out!" – he insisted, cocooning inside his sheet as if to preserve modesty, his ears burning with shame - "GET OUT!"

Cass crossed her arms, eyeing him with a smug smile.

"Look…" – Veronica spoke awkwardly, attempting reason – "You're not doing yourself any favors by locking yourself up here. Just ignore Boone if he starts…"

"I don't need coddling!" – he replied, his intonation vexed and haughty in one – "I'm not a child!"

"Then stop behaving like one." – was Cass' calmed but firm statement before pointing to the nearest chair, where a pile of clothing neatly folded rested, with her index – "Clothes." – she ordered, taking a beat in-between each sentence – "Bathroom." – she said after pointing to the door behind her to, finally, point to the entrance – "Breakfast. Now."

Eyeing the red-headed woman as if he were seeing her for the first time, he got up the bed, still hissing and seething but also wary of the two women, took the bundle of clothes in silence while not allowing the sheet slip from his body and rounded the room's quadrangle without giving them his back, frowning in anger and also in confusion, until he got to the bathroom's door and disappeared inside, closing it with more force than truly necessary.

"We will be waiting here until you get out!" – Cass warned, clearly trying to keep her voice firm while her face contorted in laughter told a very different story – "Don't make me repeat the shower prank!"

The answer was a huff whilst the sound of water running disguised more hissing and grunting.

Veronica's lips were curved inwards as she kept on not allowing laugh escape from them.

"Gotta admit it." – Cass whispered to her – "He's cute when he gets petulant, isn't he?"

Veronica snorted.

* * *

Arcade Israel Gannon readjusted his glasses over his long nose, pondering on what would he say to a teenager he happened to know to be as stubborn as a bighorner bull.

Even with his scandalous lack of tact and nonexistent palaver whatsoever, Boone was admittedly more fitted for this task than him.

Hell, Six liked Boone a great deal more than the rest of them and it showed when she would always select him as her target practice for hugs. Whenever Six got upset, Boone was ever the first and foremost choice for her to seek comfort.

It wasn't that Arcade resented her obvious preference for the gruffy ex-sniper, he wasn't exactly the hugging type and feelings were not his stronger suit when it came to affection.

He knew how to deal with his own feelings… most of the time anyway… but Arcade was if anything quite… clumsy when it came to confronting other people's feelings, and worse if said feelings had something to do with him.

Besides being boring, or so he thought, his inability to express his emotions had been a constant source of frustration and disenchantment towards any potential dalliance he might have entertained in the past.

Admittedly, there had been some good men along the way, but lovers make poor confidants and even poorer life choices when they start calling you "cold", "distant" or "not really committed to this" when your priorities about helping people in need surpasses your amorous disposition.

However, since his rather odd and, initially, _ out of place _incorporation to Six's jolly band of nonconformists, Arcade had started to feel that he, oddly, belonged to a place.

Sure, there have been the Followers… and Daisy and the other old-timers from his obscure past… But, with Six and the others, he had found purpose, comfort and an _astoundingly easy _ camaraderie with her and the rest that he hadn't known he had been looking for desperately all these years in hiding.

He missed having a family he can trust and now, with their hands full of good deeds and problems waiting to be solved, Arcade could say that, for the first time in his life, he was in the middle of something good and greater than all of them together.

And he felt happy about it.

Maybe Henry would complain and even strongly advice against the course of action he had been thinking of taking with Six and the rest, and now even more with their new addition, quirky and reserved as this _ Zorro Salvaje _youngster was; but Arcade felt that, if someone could help him to set in motion the plan he had been defining inside that head of his filled with fantastic improbabilities, that was Six.

He knocked gently and opened the door very slightly, allowing but a mere slit of light pour inside.

"Hey, Six?" – he asked quietly, adjusting his glasses yet again and searching for the tiny bundle wrapped in several layers of covers as the cold in Jacobstown, being high as the alpine community was and in the middle of February, was quite remarkable.

He detected something stirring at the right side of the door, where a well-kept queen-sized bed laid rest.

Arcade slid through the door's aperture and closed it quietly behind him. He wasn't the most sharp-sighted of their group, but he knew a thing or two about conducting himself in a closed space amidst the gloom. Perks of having had to attend countless Followers' encampments where many lights came out of lanterns and candles by night.

He sat down to the nearest side of the bed and, when he took his eyes down, he saw the dark, disheveled tuft of Six's hair over sleepy eyes directing their sight to him, questioning.

He took several unruly locks out of her eyes and smiled.

"You're missing a damn good breakfast nesting up in here." – he said in a light tone – "Coffee, bighorner meatloaf, bighorner crust with pinyon nuts, toasts with bighorner butter, bighorner cheese rolls… practically anything you can come up with as long as the recipe includes bighorner derivatives somehow." – he added humorously, eyeing the teenager as she blinked twice.

A short silence ensued.

"I'm… not really hungry, Arcade." – she spoke after a while, her voice tiny, insecure – "I just… want to stay here at the moment, you know?"

Arcade inhaled once and exhaled quietly. Playing the mother hen part was one thing, one he was comfortable enough with… but playing the confidante? He would have to coax answers from her so she would tell him why she didn't want to see a soul today.

And he wasn't very confident with such a role.

"Are you feeling unwell?" – he asked patiently.

She hesitated.

"Yes." – was her lame answer.

"It is physical or emotional?"

Hesitation again.

"I'd… rather not talk about it."

"Something happened?"

"It's nothing…"

"Please, Six, don't give me that at this stage." – he pressed – "I've been involved in more dangerous trips and political movements these last months with you than in my entire life on my own. Hell, I might even have developed a serious pathology of jumping into dangerous situations just because you tend to drive into them like a kamikaze and I happen to care about your safety. This being said… Have a little faith in me?" - he finished, inflecting a hopeful, amicable tone to his voice.

But she still harbored some hesitation.

"It's… complicated." – she said.

"Try me."

Furrowing her brows, she sat up over the mattress, eyeing Arcade warily.

"… What if I tell you that I happen to have more answers about my past than I let you all glimpse… and those very answers aren't one bit pretty?"

Arcade blinked once. Of all the things he would have expected from Six, this was something he got a sudden pang of familiarity from.

Because, when it came to bear the weight of an obscure past, he was the first one he could relate with such a notion.

However, instead of tackling the situation directly, Arcade, always the diplomat, rose from the bed.

"Mind if I roll up the blinders?" – he said casually, much to the young girl's astonishment, as he walked towards the window – "While I appreciate your sense of mystery and dramatics, talking about gloomy things in the gloom makes a very impractical choice when I cannot use this handsome features of mine to charm you into a less somber mood."

He didn't wait for her to answer when he pulled on the handles and the morning light poured gently all over the room.

"And God said, _ "Let there be light," _ and there was light." – he joked, smiling when he saw Six's scrunched up nose at the quote. While she had never said it openly, Arcade had witnessed her putting on faces each time someone had mentioned religious topics in front of her, most prominently Followers, who professed Mormon faith – "See? Less shadowy environment for a conversation, I'm sure, it's _less shady _than you intend to make me believe."- and then, when she was about to protest, he added – "Your friend, the new guy, skipped dinner last night and now you two skip breakfast in perfect synchrony. You wouldn't happen to know something about that, do you?"

Her sudden furious blushing only served to confirm his suspicions.

"Boone was bitching last night about you two communicating through your Pip-Boys' private channel." – Arcade offered as a way of explanation, his smile not faltering – "He fears the young man is, somehow, doing some _ brainwashing _ to lure you into some obscure plan involving the Legion and many of Boone's usual paranoias fed by his amazingly _ elated _ imagination."

The girl huffed, sinking the heel of her hand in one of her eyesockets tiredly.

"Boone worries way _too much _ ." – she replied – "And _ Zorro _ … well…" – she gesticulated as if lacking words – "He asks… _ too many _ questions."

She jumped slightly when the sudden surge of laughter coming from the blonde Follower's doctor came without warning.

"What's so funny?" – she asked, crossing her legs over the mattress as she directed him a dumbstruck look.

"You." – the man replied – "Finally having run into your match." – when she gave him a further surprised look with those big eyes of hers, he added – "Do you have the slightest idea how unbelievable _inquisitive _you can be when you want to? When I first talked to you, I merely asked if you were the Courier from the radio everybody seemed to know everything and nothing about. Your answer?: a round of questions about my job with the Followers, my field research, my views on the current political matters and then, when I told you that you had been an invaluable help to the Followers, you came up with excuses to watch me work and bombard me with more questions while Veronica picked her nails and Boone polished almost a full pack of cigarettes in utter silence." – he didn't bother to hide his grin when her mouth open in a big "O" and her blushing deepened – "They explained it to me later… or rather Veronica told me as Boone entered in a _ 'you're male, you're Legion' _ mode, that I had passed the test and you wanted to add me to your _ "growing collection of passive-aggressive goodie-two-shoes fools"… _ or that was how Veronica wanted to put it anyway." - he finished, recalling the Scribe's rather _peculiar _ways of describing in what consisted this collective of theirs where everybody followed the lead of a brilliant yet daredevil teenager who could repair a power generator and provide an entire community with electricity… as well as dabble into Great Khans, Powder Gangers or even Fiends' territories and leave completely unscathed while having gathered Intel any NCR officer worth their salt would kill to get their hands on.

Veronica had also told him that every last of them, even the floating machine and the cyberdog, were there to ensure that Six's constant flirting with death didn't end with her chewed and spat over the endless sands of the Mojave.

Because, as Arcade discovered later, the man who had embedded two bullets in her skull had filled the teenager with such dread that she had sought to be as equipped with backups as possible before confronting him. One didn't exact revenge out of a mob boss single-handedly and without political sympathies that would cushion her against a very probable payback.

Benny had fled the Strip not because he feared Six, but rather feared her pull with many factions that likely would present his head before her in a silver platter to gain her favor, most prominently Mr. House and his securitrons once his plan to take over had been uncovered.

However, if Arcade was truly honest with himself, her plan of becoming instrumental between the affairs of many present factions inhabiting the desert had gotten… perhaps a bit _out of hand _since she had emerged from her early grave in Goodsprings.

It was one thing to want to appeal to the good graces of every faction she happened to exchange pleasantries with… and other entirely different was to act as an intermediate between such factions so they forged unstable alliances like Samuel Cooke and the rest of ex-convicts on Vault 19 tasking her with ensuring their access to some sulfur sediments by killing a horde of fire geckos to, later, ask the Great Khans if they happen to enlist more help for their cause.

And let's not talk about dressing up as one of those very Great Khans to ensure the Fiends didn't blow their heads off while they crossed their territory to sell them chems. Arcade had never felt so inadequate and violated when he, dressed as immodestly as possible and with his blonde hair jellied up so it looked more like a mohawk, had followed Six's suicidal lead inside the wolf's den to deliver Motor-Runner his package of filth whilst she petted his two dogs as if the man, besides of wearing a salvaged Power Armor, didn't had almost double the age than most of his acolytes, signaling him not only as a brainwashing dangerous motherfucker, but also as a survivor.

Not for nothing, the NCR offered a steep reward for his head.

Arcade wasn't sure what good the Fiends' presence did to the Mojave, but it was remarkable that, since they were receiving regular shipments of chems after Six had rescued the Great Khans' original drug runner from a Legion cross, they had remained unbelievably quiet and compliant, ceasing their hostilities with McCarran.

It wasn't the best solution, keep a bunch of psychopathic junkies holed up and filled with filth so they didn't return to their violent raids, but Arcade wasn't complaining… much.

As long as their group didn't start a war with the large chem-addicted tribe, thus becoming NCR pawns, it was fine. Not ideal, but fine enough.

Besides, the Fiends were but a side problem to the real fight the entire desert was preparing for once Caesar would decide to make his move again across the Colorado.

And Arcade wanted to help prevent a horde of chauvinistic murdering rapists led by a fucking megalomaniac madman to trample into the lives of many innocent people and convert them to their insane creed.

Whomever Six choose to carry their flag for the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, being the NCR or House, didn't matter to Arcade as long as the Legion was driven out of the Mojave.

And he couldn't help but want to add his "little grain of sand" to help the cause.

"Six…"

It might not work at all.

"I've… been meaning to talk to you about something for a while now…"

But it was worth a try.

"… If you have some time, I'll appreciate it very much."

He still couldn't believe he was going to trust this much to another soul. It felt like forever since he felt a connection solid enough to spill his guts.

Six didn't disappoint when she smiled, head cocked to one side in question.

She looked tired, but much sprightlier since he had come to bid her out of the bed and confront the new day ahead.

"I'm sorry, Arcade." – she said instead, laughter filling her eyes – "But you're not my type. Can't we just be friends?"

The man actually laughed at that one. Six had an amazing way of making others comfortable around her with just a few well-placed words. This joke of hers was clearly an answer to his visible nervousness, for he was taking a lot of time between sentences and cleaning up his glasses with his sleeve a bit too compulsively.

"I thought my charm could win you over, but I guess it wasn't meant to be." – he joked as well, feeling immense relief in amicable banter, reassuring him that what was he was about to disclose was okay – "However, leaving my hurt vanity aside, I… really must tell you something. It's… important to me."

Six nodded gently.

"What is it?" – she asked even more gently.

Arcade inhaled deeply.

"As… you probably have already deduced, any day now, Caesar's going to try to march across Hoover Dam and kick NCR out of the Mojave." – he felt bad when her smiling disposition slowly morphed into a frown as words kept abandoning his mouth – "We're getting caught up in something _important _out here." – she had to know, she had to trust his words to be true despite mentioning immediately after the topic she dreaded the most – "Hell, after how you handled Benny, you're practically right in the middle of all this."

She directed him that kicked puppy look he knew so well, hearing Benny's name almost enough to distraught her.

"Listen, Six…" - he tried once again, regretting the effect his words were causing on her, already scolding himself for even bringing up the scumbag in their conversation – "I know I'm just along for the ride, but it's made me think about the past, how I might be able to help out."

Shifting on her sitting position, she eyed him confused.

"I… think I don't follow, Arcade." – she said – "You're already helping a lot and…" – she sighed – "About the other thing concerning Caesar and their war with the NCR… I'm not so sure I want to mess with either faction just yet."

"But you have the intention to." – the blonde man pressed. He had to know if he could trust her to do the right thing in the end – "Right?"

The girl's lips pressed into a thin line.

"You don't understand…" – she muttered, avoiding eye contact – "My current balance between factions is precarious at best… but I've managed to avoid any relevant confrontations between them and me thus far. I'd… like it to keep it that way… at least for now."

"Six." – Arcade said, approaching her once more, his pale green eyes intent while his hand took hers – "Don't pretend you're just surrounding yourself with potential military aid while cleansing the Strip from the rotten influences of the Three Families just because there is money in it." – he gave her tiny hands a gentle squeeze, encouraging her to open up as much as he himself was attempting to – "I'm not saying that there isn't gentleness on your part playing an important role when you help other people out. I've seen how you treat the poor and needy in Freeside bearing nothing but love and care when you try to fix their problems. That's why I accepted your invitation to become your group's medic in the first place."

She retreated her hands from his grasp, her eyes darkening while stubbornly keeping them out of his'.

"Maybe I am making up for something." – she said absently, her voice weighted with an echo of something so painful that Arcade debated seriously if he should just hug her and let his grandiose plans lie in wait for a better moment – "Maybe the recovering of my Pip-Boy has made me recall something… that I've kept ignoring as my purpose of finding Benny was my sole goal until he…"

"Forget about Benny." – he cut her mid-sentence, grabbing her gently by her shoulders – "Don't spare a single more thought for that waste of a human being, Six. He doesn't deserve it." – and, when she was about to open her mouth in protest, he added – "And neither of the possible ghosts of your past deserves more than being left behind if they torture you this way."

She grabbed his arms as well, her black eyes burning like coals.

"What would you possibly know about ghosts of one's past?" – she demanded, fiery, frightened, immensely vulnerable in her adolescence.

Arcade smiled sadly.

"Perhaps way more than you might suspect." – he answered, earnest and pained as well, knowing she deserved some sort of explanation for all of this – "I… wasn't always with the Followers, or with the NCR." – releasing her, he sighed and walked towards the window again, willing himself to find the right words – "My late father was… an officer in a group called the Enclave, a remnant of America's pre-War government." – however, he didn't get the chance to elaborate further as he heard the unmistakable click of a gun's safety mechanism pulled off – "Six…?"

However, when he turned again to the insecure girl he had left sitting cross-legged over a mattress but moments ago, he found her crouched on the floor using the bed and mattress as leverage for her hands as she pointed him with her 10mm pistol.

How she had moved so quickly, Arcade hadn't the time to ask, for she spoke.

And her voice, as well as her eyes, conveyed an extreme degree of coldness the Follower would have never suspected she was capable of.

But what unsettled him more were her words.

"Who are you?" – she demanded – "Who has sent you?"

* * *

Stepping out of the shower, Vulpes picked a random towel Raul and him had managed to unearth last night from one of the many semi-destroyed drawers in their shared bedroom and proceeded to dry off his hair, mulling over his failed plan.

He had meant to attract the Courier by staying in his room, appealing to her seemingly nurturing disposition, so he could interrogate her further on their already two unfinished conversations while being alone.

Last night he knew it won't work so, after failing to pry more out of her through the Pip-Boy's chat, he had decided to skip breakfast as well putting on the brat act – the NCR dog's hostile attitude had been the perfect excuse - so his absence would press her enough to come to try dissuade him.

However, what he hadn't expected at all had been Becky and the Cassidy woman coming to get him off the bed instead.

He had meant to play difficult at first so they would give up eventually… but the _audacity _the redhead had displayed when pulling the covers off him had… greatly unsettled him.

Admittedly, he wasn't proud of the little scene he had put on. He had… lost his cool.

The woman had made him feel exposed, _ vulnerable_. And he had hated it.

He hadn't felt so vulnerable since…

** _"… May this serve you as a warning that you are not unique, you are not granted any special concessions and you are entirely expendable."_ **

Shaking his head as if that would rid him of unpleasant memories, the Master Frumentarius put on his clothes as well as his carefully constructed mask of indifference. After all, he had a job to fulfill.

He opened the bathroom's window so the humid room could get some ventilation before Raul and he would use it again.

It almost ran into a solid form that, after a rather eloquent squawk, went flying leaving a trail of black feathers behind.

_ Crows this far up in the hills? _ – the young man thought, poking out his head briefly to first take a good look at the snowy terrain as well as the building's roof overhangs.

Both places were filled with rows of perched corvids. And Vulpes knew for a fact that these animals tended to inhabit seashores, sparse forests and generally terrains that comprehend wide esplanades like the Mojave Desert. Odd.

Two knocks on the bathroom door awakened him from his reverie and he stepped out it wearing his clothes – the typical pre-War military stuff the Courier lend him as they were the only available that could adjust his and the Followers' doctor's height - his messy white waves that would get in place as soon as they will get fully dry and an unamused expression that seemed to elicit sniggering between the two women.

"About time." – the Cassidy woman teased him, gesturing in a mocking servile manner – "Shall we, _ your Majesty _?"

Mouthy woman.

He didn't dignify her a response and walked to the exit door with his unlikely bodyguards after him.

He wouldn't admit it for the life of him, but… thinking about the prospect of breakfast made him feel _ravenous._

* * *

"Six..." – Arcade's voice was paused, drawing the words out slowly – "What are you doing?" – he attempted to walk to her, but he soon was persuaded on the contrary when the barrel of her gun raised just a tad bit to get aligned to his head.

"Don't move." – she ordered, rising from her crouched position and separating both legs so she could find an equilibrium point where the gun's aim didn't differ much from her original target – "Put your hands where I can see them." - she instructed – "Over your head, now."

Still dumbfounded, Arcade did as requested, still not getting the entire grasp of the situation.

"Six… are you alright?" – he ventured a question, but his words were met with an even harder stare from the girl.

"Don't call me that." – she _snarled _ – "Stop pretending and address me by my true name. I imagine _ he _ has had to, at least, tell you that much."

"What are you talking about?" – the man asked, starting to get really nervous in a situation he didn't understand at all – "Six, it's me! Arcade!"

"Enough!" – she barked, her eyes suddenly too gleamy, her hands betraying the slightest of trembling – "Did you had fun, huh? Playing the fool all of this time so you could get me alone and… what? Dispose of me? Knock me out so you could get me to _him _and claim your reward?" – her visage, if hardened, became a pained expression whose eyes spoke of hurt, of betrayal – "As always, _ he _has chosen a very convincing actor to play the part. I admit I never suspected a thing but, if I recall correctly, besides you being, along with _ Zorro_, the only other one _approaching me _instead of _me approaching you _in the first place, you were way too good to be true the day I asked you to join us: a fully educated Followers doctor AND a researcher that, very conveniently, is one of the few people around that knows how to actually use energy weapons saying yes to a complete stranger asking him to become her group's medic? I should have known that there were too many inconsistencies all along the way: your knowledge on Poseidon's Energy Project SEMELE and REPCONN's inner battle, you recognizing what were the remains of a crashed Vertibird, a technology nobody but a few privileged factions know about… Would have pegged you for the Brotherhood type, but Vero would have told me already." – despite the coldness of her tone, her lower lip trembled a bit as she kept talking – "I know it's stupid on my part asking this, but… _ How could you? _" – she accused, her big eyes getting glassy by the minute – "After all we've been through together? I know that, to you, I must be a stupid child and nothing more, but… I thought you were my friend."

"I AM your friend!" – Arcade exclaimed, desperate to know what may have possibly had unsettled her so much to accuse him of working for third parties against her – "Talk to me, Six! Tell me what is this all about! Who is this person you think I am working for?!"

"STOP LYING!" – she exclaimed, tears already cascading down her small face – "You know exactly _who_. _ He's so_ good at that… finding out your weaker spots and exploit them to _his _convenience." – as she kept talking, Arcade found himself becoming more and more horrified, her obsessive tone increasing in paranoia – "_He _knew I didn't have any remaining friends. No comrades, likely no family… Now I understand what _he _meant when _he _wrote to me '_I have sent an old friend of yours to deal with this unpleasant situation'. _ Let's fabricate a friend out of thin air!" – she exclaimed bitterly, tears and sobs making her voice strain – "Let's make _ Birdie _ feel what's truly like to be the _ idiotic child _ everybody knows she is!"

Arcade would have covered his mouth in shock should both his hands weren't currently occupied looking as less threatening as possible to this clearly frightened girl who was disclosing something much darker than he originally had dismissed as mere teen drama product of a life out in the Wasteland coming from a Vault past.

Because everyone on their group thought that Six was a Vaultie through and through. Her Pip-Boy, her academic competences and her manners said that much.

And she, to this day, hadn't done anything to discourage such a notion. Hell, she knew about pre-War stuff even more than him! And that was _quite something_, giving Arcade's upbringing.

But this level of drama… wasn't a drama at all, but more on the lines of a _ tragedy_.

A tragedy that, somehow, had a man - for she referred to this person as _he _ – orchestrating a presumably twisted up plan to… made her _feel inferior_? _ Punish _her?

And what he had to do with such a terrible character, anyway?

However, he didn't get a chance to defend himself when an old cracked voice he knew so well irrupted into the scene while yet another pair of gun safety mechanisms were pulled off.

"I don't know about idiotic children…" – Doctor Henry, along with his ghoul assistant, Calamity, were now inside the bedroom while aiming their laser pistols to the girl's head – "But I _ do know _about _careless _ones." – he added, not pointing anybody in particular, but Arcade knew that last statement was undoubtedly meant for him – "Pull that trigger, and I might not care that you're a child, _ at all _." – this time, his admonishing tone shifted when his eyes took in Arcade – "I told you not to trust these people with secrets like this. I told you to keep your distance, to not throw needlessly your life to the dumpster just like the rest of us did." - his gaze hardened – "If Daisy were here, she would have told you the same, but you never listened. You never wanted to."

If Henry's words stung, Six's sobs did it even more.

"Motherfucker…" – she hissed, accusatory – "You had all of this prepared, _ didn't you _?"

The cold sweat that had been gathering on Arcade's back made him shiver.

He had never been a very religious man despite having joined the Followers' cause very early in his youth, but… Arcade actually prayed that something happened so this madness could end at once.

A gunshot explosion was all the answer he received.

* * *

"Cheer up, Jimmy!"

Lifting his eyes from the creaking wooden steps he was taking down to the promise of a fulfilling breakfast, Vulpes gave Becky… _ Veronica _ a blank look.

He didn't understand this young woman's concern over his mood status, less he understood her need to appear witty and cheery all the time in front of the rest.

Because the Brotherhood Scribe, besides being _extremely _chatty even when everybody contented with easy silence, she apparently had adjudged herself the morale booster part of their group as soon as some conflict – as minimal as could be – arose between the disparity of their members. Not even the Courier was as conciliatory as Becky was.

If she were Legion AND male, she would make a fine Vexillarius, the standard-bearers whose presence on the battlefield inspired legionaries to fight to the death for the glory of Caesar.

In fact, if every member of their group could be conscripted within _ 'Legion AND male' _ category, Vulpes could easily find suitable positions for each of them on Caesar's army: Becky would either be a Vexillarius or a precocious Praetorian; Cassidy would easily find her place amidst Lanius' ranks, being as direct, obscene and raucous as she was; the Followers doctor, Gannon, either would likely end becoming a safehouse keeper… or starting an entirely new category of his own by becoming Caesar's personal _ Consilium_, for Vulpes was sure that the _Imperator_ would _love _to talk with someone as educated and… _ imaginative _as Dr. Gannon was; Raul would be a fine _ Magister _as his inclination towards teaching younger people how to defend themselves while not being overly affectionate would do some good to the children; Lily would… eh… either find herself in the kitchens or… well, basically substituting Lanius as _ Legatus _after the stupid brute of a man would dare to challenge her in combat and would find, before he could get his bearings, his brains splattered all over the arena ground. The image, to the Master Frumentarius, as appealing as a good tower of warm, _ deliciously sweet _pancakes. Hell, he would stuff a whole tower of pancakes inside his stomach while watching Lanius getting decapitated by Lily. He would literally _pay _for it, and become the poorest, fattest, happiest fox ever.

Nevertheless, even, although _very _begrudgingly, Vulpes had to admit that the NCR dog was leader material but, given his antisocial predisposition, he likely would never surpass Decanus rank.

And the Courier… the Master Frumentarius was increasingly convinced that she would do just fine amidst Frumentarii ranks.

Every single member of this group had soldier-like qualities that, if properly honeyed, had the potential of becoming a deadly squadron any army would _kill _to have on their side.

A pity they were a bunch of undisciplined, boisterous Profligates misguided by their twisted, obsolete interpretations of good and evil.

"I assure you that, despite what you might believe, I am quite content right now, Becky." – was the answer he directed to the waiting Scribe.

"Fuck, man." – the redhead woman scoffed by his side – "If this is how do you express _ 'contentment'_, I don't wanna be around when you get _ depressed_."

He was briefly tempted to reply something mordacious to her until, out of a habit he had recently developed since the Courier had gifted him the Pip-Boy, he checked the hour on the digital device.

And found the usual alert of a new message flashing intermittently on the upper right corner of the screen.

However, his feet took on a rather violent halt when he opened the chat interface and found that it wasn't the Courier who had written to him.

** _10:52 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Please, help her! \\(°Ω°)/ _

What the…?

** _10:52 AM Tuesday, February 21, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Who are you? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ There's no time for that! They're pointing laser weapons at her and her heart rate indicates that she's very nervous! _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Who are you and what are you talking about? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Go to her bedroom, upstairs third door at the left! HELP HER! HURRY! _

Communication stopped there.

"You okay, Jimmy?" – the brunette asked, eyeing his tense frame with expectation until his blue eyes collided with hers.

"Whose's room is the third door on the left upstairs?" – he asked out of the blue.

"That sounds like ours." – she answered automatically, jumping in surprise as he turned heel and darted back upstairs – "Wait! What's wrong? Where are you going?"

He didn't answer, nor he did turn around, but he made a gesture with his long hand to follow him.

Veronica eyed Cass with concern, but the redhead shrugged, following the unpredictable young man that could get them in trouble should the resident supermutants deemed them troublemaking enough to squash their sorry arses like bugs.

However, that notion quickly shifted when they saw the bedroom door open and there was a heated argument not just between Six and Arcade… but also the old doctor and his ghoul assistant issuing threats to the girl, who apparently thought they had set her up.

Nearing the door while putting his index finger over his lips, Vulpes signaled the two women to approach in silence while taking a swift sneaky peek through the entrance.

He then proceeded to communicate with non-verbal signs that there were three people armed in that room. He also vocalized, though not a sound escaped from his lips, the ones he wanted each of them to neutralize.

Cass would get the ghoul while Veronica would disarm the old doctor. He took care of the third person.

The two women, already in alert mode, nodded in acquiescence. Good.

Vulpes signaled positions, counted down to three with his fingers and gave the silent order.

They marched upon the room like thunder, Cass effectively tackled the ghoul woman to the ground while Veronica twisted the doctor's firing arm behind his back, kicking his laser pistol away.

Vulpes limited himself to kick the Courier's hollow of her knees, bending her forwards as he grabbed both her arms and impeded her to shoot one terrified Dr. Gannon.

Nonetheless, she ended pulling the trigger and an explosion and some wood splinters and speckles of dust later, she maneuvered with all his height and weight and managed to make him roll forwards on the bed. With her still in his arms.

Should the situation hadn't been so serious, the show they likely were offering rolling over the mattress and rumpled sheets would have been embarrassingly _ridiculous_.

However, did the Courier have some agility and nerve-based force to last enough against him for Vulpes having to keep her kicking legs under control trapping them with his own.

"No!" – she screeched, wriggling between his powerful limbs like a particularly pesky worm – "NO! GET OFF! GET OFF!"

She attempted to maneuver with Vulpes' weight again, but only managed a tighter grasp around her.

Vulpes had been maintaining both her arms stiff over her head, avoiding she shoot anybody. He didn't expect it when she pulled the trigger again and blew off part of the bed's headboard.

He cowered, they shifted, rolled over the mattress' edge and… fell on the ground with a deaf thump.

"Enough." – he said after grunting in pain as his spine had been the one taking the brunt of the fall – "I said enough." – voice calmed, he removed the 10mm from her hands and threw it to the other side of the room while his trained muscles subdued her clearly far inferior strength – "Stop it, now."

She seemed to relax for a second, but that didn't trick him into releasing her when he got into a sitting, more comfortable position and kept her prisoner between his arms and legs.

She renewed her screeching, making his sense of hearing sore as he contained her kicking feet and pointed elbows.

"NO!" – she wailed, nose red and eyes full of tears – "NOOOOOOO!"

Willing himself to calm, Vulpes endured her shouting and squirming when, invasive, the thought of a small boy crying and kicking, unconscious of his own strength, threw on the most violent temper tantrum any of the women of the tribe had ever seen.

The child would scream, stomp, bite and throw any near object to the ones who braved approaching him.

But the little fox had been taking care of his, by then, youngest brother since he was a baby and knew how to soothe his enraged attacks.

Freeing her still kicking legs from his hold, he reverted her position with her back against his chest to sit her on his lap, her legs aside, secure her chin over his shoulder and, whilst avoiding her headbutting him by grasping her nape, he started to awkwardly pat her back, shushing her gently, willing his mind to recall how he used to lull _ Perro _when not even his own mother would attempt to get near him.

Like his lost brother, she struggled and even sank her fingernails against his torso until her bodily tension eventually diminished and she started to sob quietly.

However, when he made an attempt to pull her off him a bit to see her state, her thin arms engulfed his torso in a vice grip while her face nuzzled the crook of his neck.

She wasn't letting him go, so he repressed a sigh and kept patting her back while the hand on her nape sank long fingers amidst her unruly short hair, surprisingly soft despite looking like a raven's nest.

She continued sobbing and he rose his eyes in time to watch how the old doctor attempted to punch Becky in the face and she, despite being remarkably shorter than him, stopped the punch midair and subdued him until he tasted the floorboards. Cassidy had the groaning ghoul under control with a knee over the other's spine while immobilizing both her arms.

However, the scene didn't get any better as two quick sets of steps registered all over the corridors until they stopped at the entrance.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" – the NCR dog's voice boomed while stomping his way before the embraced figures of Vulpes and Six – "Get. Off. Her! NOW!" – he demanded.

"Not now, Boone!" – Veronica snapped after getting some help from Raul when she pointed him to the discarded guns so he could get them far off the twitchy fingers of their respective owners – "Arcade, are you alright?"

The still paralyzed blonde man needed a few extra seconds to answer with a silent nod, still eyeing Six as if he were seeing her for the first time.

"What the fuck happened here?!" – the altered sniper's voice didn't help with the Courier's altered state when she nuzzled further into the crook of Vulpes' neck, filling his shirt with wetness as she kept crying.

The Frumentarius' unconscious answer was scratching her nape absently whilst he squeezed her a bit closer. She squeezed him tighter in response.

Then, her face shifted a bit and her lips found his ear.

Her voice was so low that Vulpes had to concentrate to grasp what she was saying.

"John Henry Eden." – he said out loud so the rest of the present company could understand – "She says that… you didn't have enough with what happened with… Project Safehouse and the Vault-Tec Industries network of underground shelters for social experiments." – as her lips kept moving against his ear and her words filling his brains, his own words translating hers became increasingly strange even to his ears – "She says that you… monitored the Vault Behavioral Project from the Poseidon Oil refinery in Navarro and… developed the FEV Curling-13, based on the virus that created the supermutants in the first place. She says… that you wanted a second holocaust so bad you ended being administrated and led by a machine."

Arcade's face lost all remaining color while, struggling to get up aided by Calamity as Veronica released him, Doctor Henry sighed.

"The ZAX computer was our founders' doing." – he said absently, sitting on a chair nearby, his old body resenting the brief struggle he had against that woman with the pneumatic gauntlet – "As well as the Vault Behavioral Project. The orders were _ 'to continue the American legacy and, once all the Communism would be eradicated, we will claim our rightful place as the sole heirs of all humankind' _ ." – he scoffed disdainfully – "Before the War, the Enclave was a cabal of powerful individuals from across the United States, including presidents, members of the joint chiefs, prize-winning scientists, wealthy industrialists, members of the military, influential politicians and other powerful men and women who together formed the _éminence grise _of the United States of America. And then… after the bombs fell, they saw not only the ghouls and the supermutants as sub-humans that ought to be eradicated, but also the wastelanders and the people living in the Vaults." - he shook his head – "They treated people from the outside like guinea pigs to test their discoverings with. Slaves, convenient pawns to do their bidding. They didn't care about the problems they had created in the first place. Instead of addressing the nature of their failures, they wanted to eradicate them. That's why I never saw eye to eye with the leadership and left."

"Henry…" – Arcade murmured, for the first time in his life at a loss for words.

"But you're making a mistake if you think the boy works with them." – the old doctor continued, directing to Arcade the fondest look the Follower had ever seen in the other man – "I am well aware that certain chapters of the Enclave, remnants if you will, do still operate throughout the American Wasteland. Even maybe in other countries as well." – he inhaled, clearly in pain at disclosing a chapter in his life he had deemed already closed – "But Arcade wasn't even born when the oil rig exploded. You shouldn't adjudge the sins of a father to his son. And I am including myself in those sins, if that makes you feel better." – for the first time, the old man sounded tired, immensely tired of all those years seeking a way out of the weight his roots had put over his shoulders – "I'm curious though. To which Vault did you pertain to harbor such resentment against the very faction that lied about protecting your ilk and, instead, used you?"

Her voice, small as it already was, faltered and more tears welled up Vulpes' shirt.

After a while, her words found his ear once more.

"Vault 5, under the Cambridge Academic Center of the Commonwealth." – he translated, suddenly very aware of the location the girl was describing.

The Commonwealth was to _that _direction even Caesar's Legion hadn't dared to set foot on, centering more on the western conquering.

Northeast, Atlantic shore, the old State of Massachusetts.

This girl, quite indeed, had traveled the Wasteland from one side to another. Besides her ties with the old Washington DC, she pertained to another entirely different kind of Wasteland.

The sharp breath intake on the old doctor's part was the only sound amidst a sepulchral silence that had been cast upon every individual present in the room.

"Good Lord…" – the old man gasped, horrified – "You… you are part of _ that _ program…"

"Henry…" – Arcade, throat dry raspy as sandpaper, dared to ask while putting a hesitant hand over his father's old comrade's shoulder – "What program are we talking about?"

The Courier was shaking fervently under Vulpes' fingertips while Doctor Henry's head came to rest between his also shaking hands.

"Military indoctrination coupled with fighting VR simulators and…" – the man swallowed – "… Biological experimentation with long-term Cryogenesis…"

* * *

**_"Surprise!"_ ** – a whole chorus of voices right after the video recording had started. She had known about the party the whole time… and yet, just to please dad, she had pretended it had been a surprise. The video footage was awful and nearly half the time unfocused… but she hadn't gotten hold of her Pip-Boy yet and had to work with an old recording device she had been wearing like a pendant around her neck. That was supposedly the big event of turning ten: getting your own personal device – ** _"… Turned the lights on too fast. You blinded the poor kid!"_ **

Then, the few clapping and the mandatory _ 'Happy Birthday'_.

** _"Happy birthday, honey."_ ** – his face, somehow, seemed the only one that had gotten the best recorded. She hadn't allowed him to get off of her sight much time – ** _"I can't believe you're already ten… I'm so proud of you."_ **

And she had felt so proud of him… Doctor James Alden.

Her father. The only man that had mattered something to her during the first nineteen years of her life.

** _"If only your mother…"_ **

His voice, always so deep, so smooth…

** _"Congratulations, young lady."_ **

And then… the Overseer. Alphonse Almodovar.

He always had the voice of the smug rat he was.

** _"I don't have to tell you how special this day is, do I?"_ ** – her father was special. Her birthday and the Overseer's praise… she couldn't have cared less – ** _"Down here in Vault 101, when you turn 10, well… you're ready to take on your first official Vault responsibilities. So here you are. As Overseer, I hereby present to you your very own Pip-Boy 3000! Get used to it. You'll be getting your first work assignment tomorrow. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"_ **

As funny as a molerat's excrement.

** _"Enjoy your party."_ ** – and then, dad's soothing voice again - ** _"You're only ten once, so have fun."_ **

She had loved him so, so much…

** _"Happy birthday! We really surprised you, didn't we?"_ **

And then… the voice of a little girl. Amata Almodovar. The Overseer's daughter.

Her supposedly best friend.

** _"Ha, ha! Your dad was afraid you were onto us. But I told him not to worry. You're so easy to fool."_ **

Yes… she had been easy to fool… so naïve, so innocent… Easy to fool.

Stopping the clumsy footage, she took a languorous drag at her cigar, misting the device's screen for a few seconds with toxic smoke.

She played this time an audio recording she had gotten from an old radio transmission.

** _"It feels like you left home a long time ago, but I know you're still out there. I just hope you're still alive to hear this."_ ** – a pause, some static noise in between sentences - ** _"Things got worse after you left. My father's gone mad with power. If you can hear this, please stop looking for your dad and help stop mine."_ ** – of course, Amata, always the Samaritan for you. We are best friends, aren't we? – ** _"I changed the door password to my name. If you're hearing this, and you still care enough to help me, you should remember it."_ **

She had remembered. Just as she would remember the day she had crossed the threshold of Vault 101 again.

After another drag, she went to her database and selected yet another video footage.

This time, the image was well-focused and crystal clear.

** _"Tell me that again."_ **– this time, it was her own adult voice addressing the bloodied image of a dying Hispanic girl, crimson pooling around her as well as the Enclave soldiers she had killed before… - ** _"Tell me that it's all my fault."_ **

The girl she was recording gurgled and focused her sight for a second, raising a trembling hand to the camera.

** _"P… please…" _ **\- she rasped.

** _"Please what?"_ ** – her own voice, even in it's mocking, sounded impossibly cold.

** _"H… help… me…"_ **

** _"Now you want my help, again?"_ ** – she laughed humorlessly – ** _"How can I be of any help if 'it's all my fault'?"_ **

The footage extended for a few minutes more whilst the light extinguished from Amata's eyes as her form lie still on the Wasteland's barren soil.

** _"Tell me again that it's all my fault, bitch."_ **

Then, the recording abruptly ended.

Finishing her cigar, she dropped the butt outside the walls of this fortress. _ Her _fortress.

Her gilded cage.

Directing her steps slowly back towards the terrace padded chairs and table, she accepted the bourbon shot Burke handed to her.

"Reminiscing, songbird?" – he asked placidly, stretching a hand over the table and putting a few strands of golden long hair behind her ear.

She leaned into his touch like a cat.

An affection-starved cat.

"Charon has written again." – she informed after a blessed, truly rare moment of contentment only this bad, bad man could provide her with – "He has managed access to the Strip and has assessed the perimeter already." – lacing her dainty fingers with his, she added – "He asks for clearance."

Behind dark tortoiseshell glasses, steely eyes gleamed with predatory anticipation.

"Tell him to proceed the way he deems best."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LATIN:
> 
> (1) - "Divide and rule."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: ... dense chapter is deeeeeense as fuck, but I've managed to get through it victorious, ha!  
Sorry for the delay, but between how complicated-wise this chapter had become and then that I am feeling a bit depressed lately (due to confinement, nothing you're not familiar with, so don't worry), I've been struggling as how I wanted to develop it and how much I wanted to say and how.  
What has to do Six's aversion to the Enclave besides the obvious? And what about Burke, Laura, and Charon? There are questions and unresolved issues, I know, but now Vulpes is growing closer to our little group and Six has managed to get a hug out of him, yay! :D  
Not the ideal setting, but relationships are starting to develop and bonding is slowly breaking through the ice.  
Like it? Hate it? Too much info? (déjà vu question, I know). Love the new comments, readers and Kudos! Thank you so much! ^^


	13. I was only nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains gratuitous racism, political controversy, military controversy, children indoctrination, child soldiers, and pretty much what you would NOT want your Government to inflict upon you.  
Besides that, there's the usual Legion dickery, enslavement and, perhaps, some controversy about the LGTBI community.  
Not trying to be offensive, just adjusting my writing to the Fallout Universe. Bear in mind that many opinions that I might write here do not reflect my actual opinions on all these matters.

* * *

_"I am Gunnery Sgt. Miller, your senior drill instructor. From now on you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be 'Sir.' Do you maggots understand that?"_

_“Sir, yes sir!”_

_In the last decade, age for entering the military infantry, most prominently the Marine Corps, had been drastically reduced. At first, it had been shortened by two years, making the initial candidates from sixteen years old on forward._

_“Bullshit, I can’t hear ya! Sound off like you’ve got a pair!”_

_“SIR, YES SIR!”_

_But then, war casualties had kept rising as the blood tide had drowned the North, painting it red with Communism strokes._

_Since there were lots of T-45 Power Armor equipments - with the T-51 still in development stage - and every month less and less candidates in sight; a new program with part of the Engineers Corps team working on the due ergonomic adaptations had gotten green lights._

_Said program, besides being a sort of recycling attempt for training purposes for the aging Power Armor units, unfit for current counterattacks on the landing enemy forces, it also had been an experiment of sorts to test the mechanized strain against muscles still in a developing stage._

_Then, the official enlisting age had lowered from sixteen to… ten._

_“If ya bunch of crybabies leave my island and survive recruit training, you’ll be a weapon! A fucking killing machine! You’ll be a Minister of Death praying for war and Commie blood!”_

_Big Bro had made his training with the Marine Corps and he had been promoted to Captain upon reaching his late twenties._

_She had wanted to be like him._

_“But, until that day, you’re nothing but trash! The lowest form of life on Earth! To me, you’re not even human, but an unorganized bunch of sorry-arsed retarded wailing pieces of shit not even worth the sole of my boot! You’ve got that clear, ya filthy maggots?!”_

_“SIR, YES SIR!”_

_Many of her companion recruits would hold their tears while attempting not to squirm under Miller’s unforgiving stare. Mandy had been standing tersely by her left, holding her stomach so hard she had gotten red in the face._

_Girls on the right side of the common room, boys on the left._

_“And what we’ve got here?” – steely, malevolent eyes had caught on Mandy’s effort, eyeing her clumsy stance and chubby form with disdain – “What’s your name, fatgirl?”_

_A chorus of low snickers had ensued, most of them coming from the boys’ side, but they had been quickly cut as soon as the Sergeant had turned around bellowing:_

_“Did I fucking order you to open your brainless traps, you motherfucking lot of assholes?!” – after that, he had turned to a trembling Mandy again – “Well, scumbag?”_

_“Sir, Amanda Balasubramanian, sir!”_

_Mandy’s father had been of Indian ancestry._

_“What the fuck is that supposed to be?! A goddamned load of Hindi shit?!_

_“Sir, I’m American-born, sir!”_

_“Bullshit! I bet you still conduit those pagan Booga Booga rituals and plunge onto that river everybody takes a dump at!”_

_“Sir, I do not, sir!”_

_“Sir, this recruit thinks that there’s of common knowledge that, regardless of gender, ethnic or religious origins, the U.S. Army accepts all of us equally, sir!”_

_But her brother hadn’t warned her about any xenophobic, sexist or even antireligious behavior within the higher ranks._

_“Well, no shit.” – the instructor had said while turning his attention to her, violating her personal space – “And what have we got here? A fucking humanist!” – he scoffed – “Did I hurt your sensitivities, huh? I don’t know what the fuck do you think you are, but this is not a goddamned tea party and I’m no motherfucking Queen Elizabeth, recruit!” – he had boomed, small droplets of saliva landing on her face as she fought the urgent need of wiping them off – “However, maybe YOU are from the royalty, after all!” – and then, the beautiful pink hair clip she had been wearing had come loose between the Sergeant’s hands – “And THIS is your sissy crown! Whaddya say, Private Princess?!”_

_She had wanted to be like a princess since forever… but this man had bastardized that very notion, turning it into an insult._

_A title of mockery the rest of her companions would use to bully her._

_She had cried that night in silence on her upper bunk bed while Mandy had kept on patting her hand, lulling her softly with a French song, _‘Le temps de l’amour’_, from an old singer her mother had taught her at some point._

_“Recruit Princess! Move that scrawny ass of yours and keep with the rest’s timing! Those wall hangers ain’t gonna do themselves!”_

_The training had been as hard for the girls as it had been for the boys. No exceptions, no slack-cutting._

_No mercy._

_“Present Arms!”_

_Rifles would be as heavy as an adult’s. The recoil sending more than once a sloppy recruit to the infirmary with a broken nose or a black eye._

_“Ready!”_

_Children used as cannon fodder._

_“Aim!”_

_Children wielding guns._

_“Fire!”_

_Children being taught how to kill._

** _“I love working for Uncle Sam,  
Let's me know just who I am.  
1, 2, 3, 4, ‘S’ for ‘Stronger’,  
You brute warmonger!  
1, 2, 3, 4, ‘P’ for ‘Perceptive’,  
Quicker, wittier, deceptive!  
1, 2, 3, 4, ‘E’ for ‘Endure’,  
Commies won’t call you down to a lure!  
1, 2, 3, 4, ‘C’ for ‘Charismatic’,  
You handsome bastard, you pretty bitch!  
1, 2, 3, 4, ‘I’ for ‘Intelligent’,  
You egghead, you nerd, gotta some talent!  
1, 2, 3, 4, ‘A’ for ‘Agile’,  
Red Menace is vile!  
1, 2, 3, 4, ‘L’ for ‘Lucky’,  
That’s it, ya lucky son of a bitch!  
We gotta win this war!  
We gotta win this war!  
WE GOTTA WIN THIS WAR!”_ **

_Bastardizing infancy, bastardizing childhood dreams, bastardizing the main pillars of their society._

_Destroying innocence._

_They had sold the American Cause even through comics and videogames, encouraging the younger generations to become war heroes._

_Boys and girls playing with loaded pistols._

_But their mothers would mourn them when they returned in pieces in a box, their names engraved in a polished wall, their deaths engorging the statistics._

_Big Bro hadn’t been very happy when he had discovered it. He, aided by Big Sis’ knowledge in Law, had fought with the Administration to get her custody back._

_And then, he had been sent away. Big Sis had been forced to take a maternity leave when they had discovered she had been pregnant._

_No demandant, no lawyer, no cause._

_Then, out of the blue, some funds for another program._

_Taking each one of the most brilliant young minds into a new round of training, this time with the Engineers Corps, she had entered into a Programming Division._

_Mandy had come with her._

_And then… the Purge._

_“You lil’ Communist scumbag heathen! You will NOT leave, you will NOT cry, you will NOT speak without my fucking permission!”_

_They were hushed._

_“Reds does not just wear motherfucking chinks’ faces! But niggers, kikes, kebabs, greasers and even fucking wetbacks!”_

_White Supremacy. Again. The perfect excuse._

_The perfect object lesson._

_Stirring hatred amidst panic and chaos, an opportunity had arisen._

_Maxson. Breckenridge. Spindel. Wellesley. Clifton. Retslaf. Babcock._

_“That was the last straw. You know what's been stopping the Reds from pouring into downtown Juneau? American soldiers, that's what. And now we've got to worry about someone - Chinese, Alaskan, or otherwise - taking out the pipeline? I don't think so. Effectively immediately, United States troops are beginning a complete takeover of all Canadian assets and resources. Little America is ours. But let's face it - it always has been.”_

_An entire chain of high-ranking officers supporting the military coup._

_And their leader: Constantine Chase. His face and voice on the Anchorage VR Simulation the perfect propaganda campaign._

_All white men in a growing pro-white army secretly funded by a secret society where most of its members had been white: the Enclave._

_A Government impoverished by the Vault-Tec ‘Project Safehouse’ since the 50’s had led to embezzlement and corruption, taking junk bonds and allowing obscure CEOs from multimillionaire Corporations to step into Politics._

_Robert House had been the only one intelligent enough to ally with the military when they had forcefully risen to power, effectively nulling any previous government indebtments. Martial Law, in Chase’s own words, had been ‘the Good Guys shoving their cocks down the throat of the corrupted system’._

_However, when there’s a system so corrupted, gangrenous infection is to be expected._

_So, the rot had expanded._

_And then, the Enclave had given the thumbs up, giving a thorough cleansing amidst their own ranks, positioning themselves at the head of the Top Priority List when it came to the sheltering against a possible holocaust. House’s mathematical predictions coming to an answer._

_Secret projects kept running, money kept pouring. The population was left in the dark, monitored from distant secret scientific facilities, and many young brilliant minds disappeared amidst chaos and paperwork._

_So, the countdown had begun._

_Names were put in several lists, places were reserved, seats were filled behind bulletproof walls. Popcorn and Nuka-Cola served for the spectators._

_Trust the judgment of your Overseer. Submit to the Chain of Command. You have your orders, soldier._

_A chorus of silent screams behind frozen tank walls._

_And the show had started._

* * *

Six won’t get out of bed.

Veronica would know, she had been trying for nearly an hour to coax her into having breakfast with the rest of the group.

Just like always. Just like before she pointed a gun to Arcade, scared the shit out of everyone and started whispering dangerous truths to Jimmy’s ear.

She had refused to give them further explanations after the old doctor’s shocking declarations – not that any of them have had the stomach to ask for them given the circumstances – and had remained anchored between the young man’s arms, whose surprisingly tenderness at delivering silent comfort had, for once, shut Boone’s trap as he had kept lending his shoulder while muttering shushing noises from time to time when the girl would start crying again.

She had passed out of exhaustion at some point and he had put her on the bed again, taking care both to blanket her down to a cocoon and dispose of the splinters the ruined headboard had left behind.

After that, still silent as a tomb, he had gone downstairs to the kitchen area and had, slowly but methodically, eaten for three people while Lily had kept serving him, commending his appetite.

Didn’t he eat well enough where he came from or was this his way to vent out stress? Nevertheless, Veronica had kept him silent company along with Raul while Arcade had locked himself with Doctor Henry to, presumably, discuss some things related with the recent events. Calamity had been the one to deal with Marcus as the shooting had quickly raised suspicions amidst the supermutants, among them Keene, who had started his usual round of xenophobic bitchiness saying that humans cannot be trusted even with keeping peace among comrades. His complaints had rendered him nothing but Calamity rolling her milky eyes as she had endured the repetitive discourse once again.

Cass had decided to cook herself a large reserve of Moonshine she had quickly polished down to oblivion and Boone had decided to pick up a chair and guard Six’s door.

The day had passed filled with unresolved tensions, uncomfortable silences and unsure glances between the members of their group. Down to this point, nobody knew what was going to happen given their leader’s mental state and that was rapidly getting at them one way or another.

Everybody feared this event would split their group’s almost perfect cohesion and yet nobody was brave enough to say it out loud.

Less than twenty-four hours without direction and Veronica was already feeling the strain: repetitive, depressing thoughts kept ringing over her mind in a loop as she started to face the harsh reality that would be to come back to the Hidden Valley bunker with her tail between her legs.

McNamara would surely gently scold her naivety and send her back again to her “Procurement Specialist” role.

And she would start gathering supplies from the 188. Alone. Again.

And what about the rest? While she positively knew that Boone would never leave Six’s side as the alternative, in his case, was likely suicide; the rest would share a more or less common depressing fate: Raul would likely return to his shack regarding himself as a failure, good-for-nothing old man nobody needed. Cass would return to the Mojave Outpost until she would decide to head back to the West and figure out what to do with herself. Lily would simply remain in Jacobstown, likely eventually forgetting everything, given her dementia coupled with the heavy antipsychotic medication she took.

Arcade would likely return to his research with the Followers bearing all the fault on his conscience whereas Jimmy… well, Veronica didn’t know him very well, but could bet that if he chose to remain by Six’s side, he and Boone would end killing each other eventually.

So… the prospects didn’t look good at all and Six’s reiterated absence thorough the entire previous day and now, this next morning, was getting the best of Veronica.

Eyeing anxiously every single soul silently congregated around the breakfast table, she weighted their chances at getting Six up and operative again.

Doctor Henry had announced that Rex’s recovery time would extend from three to four days as the intervention had been so invasive that getting him out of the anesthesia was out of the question until the new brain “got acquainted” with its new case and started to send signals through the artificial nervous system to the rest of the canine’s cybernetic body.

Veronica’s nerves couldn’t wait four days for an excuse to pick Six’s attention amidst the general depressing state of things, so she evaluated one by one her comrades’ capabilities to get through the teenager.

And the answer, while not ideal, was sitting next to her wolfing down yet another protein load under the guise of an enormous bighorner steak.

Feeling a bit sick in the stomach thinking about how half of such a banquet would have gotten her indigested already, Veronica disguised her almost-order as a desperate petition.

“Me?” – the alluded young man asked after swallowing a mouthful, eyeing her as if she had just sprouted wings – “What makes you think she would listen to me?”

“Just… try it!” – the Scribe pledged – “Please? Just to rule out a possibility in case it doesn’t work?”

“And how, pray tell, Becky, do you suggest I should approach her?”

Coming from any other person, Veronica would have simply punched them in the face for giving her such an _apparent_ condescending crap. But coming from Jimmy… she didn’t know why, but she felt that the young man, most of the time, didn’t mean anything by talking in such an affected way; it was just his default way of speech. More or less.

Besides, she had to concede him that their group was plain weird to begin with, and neither Boone or Cass were giving him an easy time. The young man was clearly reserved and not precisely the most cheerful of the lot.

But Six had invited him and he had accepted. He forcibly had to have some redeemable qualities regarding his hermetic personality that had made Six literally _squeal_ like a schoolgirl when he had come back from his dilated excursion with Rex’s new brain in hand.

Veronica wanted to believe it, she truly did.

“Hum….” – she debated, truly wanting for something inventive coming to her mind – “Do you… ehm… know any good jokes or something?”

The young man gave her a blank stare.

“Or…” – she tried again – “Maybe… you can teach her how to punch or something? I could help you with that one. Punching is my thing.”

He blinked once, still giving her that blank expression.

“I don’t know, okay?” – she sighed, her mood deflating – “She likes trash food. Maybe there’s still some Fancy Lads and even a Nuka somewhere between our packed rations. Try to start with that.”

That idea seemed to sit better with him as he nodded, finished his steak and, after arming himself with the precious consumables after a quick search, he got upstairs, the Brotherhood Scribe following him just to ensure he managed to get past the door.

Boone was still guarding Six’s doorstep and, while he dedicated the usual nasty frown to Jimmy, the sniper’s expression quickly shifted into bewilderment, then utter and complete puzzlement when the young man, instead of knocking the door as all of them had been doing to usher the girl outside, he limited to turn the handle, have his merry way inside the room and slammed the door before the face of a very perplexed Boone.

“What the f…?!” – he said, so stunned that he wasn’t capable to end the sentence – “Did you see that?! Did you?!” – he exclaimed, directing his angry but also confused gaze to Veronica, who grabbed him by the shoulder as soon as he attempted to follow the intruder and feed him his boot.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” – she exclaimed, patting him gently in the back – “Someone’s in need of a coffee!” – she sing-sung while quite literally dragging the offended man by the arm so he followed her – “C’mon, Boone. There’s some meatloaf from yesterday downstairs with your name on it.”

“I can’t fucking believe it!” – he insisted – “The little piece of shit have just got in!”

“Yes, yes, Boone. I’ve seen it.”

“I’m fucking gonna kill him!” – the man snarled, pulling from her grasp to drag both their weights back to the door.

Veronica had enough.

“_Craig Joseph Boone_!” – she bellowed and, by the man’s frozen expression, she knew she had his complete attention now – “Cross that threshold and _your face_ and _my fist_ are getting _intimately acquainted_ right here, right now!” – she warned, raising her pneumatic gauntlet with her hand curled into a fist to prove her point.

Frowning, the ex-sniper and her exchanged nasty glances until she gave up and sighed.

“Listen, I asked him to try persuade her out of bed, okay?” – she explained, suddenly very tired – “She likes him and he’s willing to help. Anything is better than having her like that.”

She sounded miserable, infuriatingly vulnerable… and she couldn’t stand it.

However, the tension on Boone’s bicep relaxed a bit even though his frown didn’t diminish in the slightest.

“He tries anything funny, I’m skinning him alive and then dumping his sorry pale ass outside with the snow.” – he grunted, retaking his position sat by the bedroom’s door, arms crossed and stubborn disposition in place.

Veronica pinched the bridge of her nose tiredly, rubbing her eyelids with her thumb and index fingers. When it came to Six, Bonne was unbelievably impossible.

“Coffee?” – she finally offered after a while, extending the providential olive branch.

Boone’s tense jaw relaxed minimally.

“Yeah.” – he acquiesced; his intonation much softer than a minute before.

Nodding, she made good on her word and went to pick them two coffees.

She was staying with him until Six was popping her nose out that door.

* * *

“Speak when I give you the signal, okay?” – fingers counting down. _Unus. Duo. Tres_ – “_Ire, _Alex.”

Nearing lips to the recording device, the Decanus began the discourse.

“This is a message to the NCR from the Legion.” – Alexus said – “We are coming for you. Run, and we will catch you. Hide, and we will find you. No matter what you do, you are all going to die. We took one of the women alive.”

Gabban pushed a button, the holodisk stopped and then, after pushing another, Alex’s voice repeated what had been said a moment ago. The Decanus felt satisfied at the gravelly cadence the recording gave to a voice many had dared to tease until a well-placed punch had silenced their stupid, dangerous waggling tongues.

“Well said.” – the Frumentarius praised – “Short and to the point with just the right amount of menace behind. You can come with quite the inspiring words when you want.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.” – the interpellated replied dryly, shifting attention to one of the _contubernium_ men – “Caliban, plant a few explosive mines under the corpses and inside one of the lockers. Rig that shotgun we found earlier under the bunk beds pointing to the fire extinguishers and plant a bottlecap mine under them. If those fuckers are so good, they’ll see the trap a mile away. If not… more NCR notches on our belts.” – the leader Decanus added with a grim smile the other man, Caliban, shared avidly after nodding and starting to do as ordered.

Gabban, sitting by the radio desk of Ranger Station Charlie, poked around the many First Aid containers placed over it.

“Catch.” – Alexus heard he said before being tossed several intravenous bags – “You and your men need a good detox after Techatticup Mine and…” – he added as he put several syringes in front of his sibling – “Some medicine to nurse those broken bones and hematomas. The Rangers put up quite the fight.”

“Screw the Rangers.” – Alexus replied dismissively – “And also screw you. If it wasn’t because three crippled men wouldn’t do any good to my unit’s reputation, I’d toss those drugs to the fire, where they belong.”

“Your short-sighting can cost many lives.” – Gabban scolded his twin lightly – “When there’s resources at hand, it’s a shame to waste them for the wrong reasons.”

“Careful there, brother.” – Alex warned – “For here, we’re among friends, but such ideas might not sit well with other high-ranking officers. Most prominently, the _Imperator_ himself and his Praetorians.”

The Frumentarius snorted. When it came to defending Legion laws and prohibitions regarding Caesar’s judgment, Alex would always get defensive.

Truly a shame, for Gabban knew that, deep inside that thick skull, his twin, as well as their older brother, didn’t buy such a load of Legion crap meant for weak, easily-controlled minds. Vulpes was a firm defender of use – though not _abuse_ – non-standard methods of healing if that meant more legionaries on their two feet and ready to keep fighting. It had been him the one who had developed his own recipe of Hydra after questioning, one by one, _dozens_ of former tribal shamans to come with a more reliable solution than the healing powder.

“You’re still after that?” – he questioned – “Getting into the Praetorian Guard wouldn’t get you any favors besides a temporary glory pedestal that, in due time, will get you back on the arena fighting against the next younger candidate going after your position _and_ your neck.”

The Decanus huffed.

“Like Hell I would allow that to happen.”

“Let’s be realistic for a moment, Alex, and ask yourself this: why do you think nobody has gone after Lucius’ position yet?” – but before the interpellated could answer, Gabban raised a hand – “I’ll give you a clue: it has NOTHING to do with him being _invictus_ up to this day.”

“Respect is something you earn.” – Alexus argued – “And Lucius has even _my_ respects for something.”

Gabban sighed. His twin could be as stubborn and unreasonable as Vulpes on one of his bad days, when cold pragmatism would elude him and, instead, anger would settle things in his place. Like it had happened in Nipton.

It was true that the lottery had been a great idea and its execution most impeccable.

However… that little detail of butchering the ‘lucky losers’ down to _literal_ pieces and laying to waste a very strategic location where there may have had been countless resources the fire had engulfed after the Master Frumentarius had given the order to burn everything…

That had spoken about Legion power, yes, but also about the Bull’s Fox ruthlessness when it came to deal with what he denominated _‘human filth’_.

Nipton had been entirely Vulpes’ doing, for little did its destruction spoke about how Caesar’s politics regarding conquest went in ‘civilized’ territory.

With such prospects, Gabban felt, sometimes, that the only psychologically well-balanced out of the remaining siblings was him.

And that made him feel incredibly alone from time to time.

And alone he felt, once again, when Alexus’ men draggled the Ranger woman outside the building with them.

Extraordinary measures had been to take with this one, for her wrestling technique coupled with her Ranger training could, literally, cripple a healthy adult man with a single blow.

Impressed by her unyielding spirit, even after being threatened to blow her subdued companions’ heads off – which they had done nonetheless – Alexus had decided, after facing her in combat, that this Ranger in particular deserved some further consideration.

“Your name, Ranger?” – Alexus asked once the men had the struggling woman on her knees.

It was the first time Gabban had heard his twin address an NCR soldier by any other name than _‘Profligate scumbag’_.

The woman spat at the Decanus’ feet.

Unfaced by her insolent behavior, Alexus had grabbed her by the shirt, tearing up the dogtag from her neck.

“Ranger Stella Preziosi.” – the Decanus read aloud – “Soft name for a tough warrior like you.” – pocketing the dogtags, Alexus started to round her like a Deathclaw smelling blood – “You fought well and valiantly, not giving up even when you faced us alone with your fists to do the talking part. I admire that and, for that sole reason, I have decided that you shall live.”

“I don’t need the pity of a disgusting Legion motherfucker like you, so shove it where you like it most.” – the woman spat, her vocabulary clearly attempting to goad them into killing her – “And if you’re thinking of turning me into a breedmare for your limp-dicked megalomaniac Warlord, just forget it. I will eviscerate him or any other who would dare lay a finger on me.”

Unfaced again by her insolence, Alexus knelt down to her visual height.

“Oh, but neither I am showing you pity, nor you will become one of our meek slaves.” – Alexus replied – “But I will give you a chance at survival. A survival you shall earn with these very fists.” – the Decanus added, pointing to the woman’s hands – “For you will fight against our men, showing them what strength and pride truly are.”

Eyeing the obscured face of the legionary talking to her, the woman clearly weighed her options.

“I will never train your kind, if that’s what you’re getting at.” – she defied – “For, if they would learn something, it will be with their swine blood soaking the sand under my feet.”

However, contrary to what she may have expected, Alexus’ electric blue eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Very well.” – the Decanus sentenced, earning a grimace out of Gabban – “Then, I am taking you with me to The Fort, where you will issue that challenge of yours… in the arena.”

The Frumentarius shook his head from side to side after they had set course for the East, dragging the still struggling woman with them.

For, even if the young Decanus didn’t realize it, Alexus and Vulpes, sometimes, thought so alike that it was scary.

* * *

This, definitely, couldn’t be classified as spy work _at all_.

Since his “addition” to this extravagant group of crazed fools, Vulpes Inculta, Caesar’s Master Frumentarius, had obtained more questions than actual answers that could resolve the mystery around Courier Six.

Sure yesterday had proven to be the first time the girl had opened up about certain issues regarding pre-War questionable policies when dealing with the population of the many Vaults scattered across the American Wasteland.

But that didn’t answer why she had abandoned the relative security of her Vault and who was this obscure figure from her past or why she seemed to fear said figure so much.

Also, that didn’t answer what she wanted to do with him at all.

And, if there was something that got on Vulpes’ nerves deeper than Lanius’ insulting jabs, that was _ignorance_.

He didn’t know what he had gotten himself into and, by the looks of it, he wasn’t getting answers any time soon.

Nevertheless, he knew he had arrived at a critical point where the Courier seemingly had taken her whole pick of as many different personalities as she could manage inside her group. And now it was showing just how precarious that balance was if her confrontation with the seemingly sanest follower was any indication.

Should Vulpes truly wanted to strain that balance a little further just to see the whole unit crumbling like a house of cards, he couldn’t ask for a better moment than now. A few well-placed words on the girl's ear; some idle, apparently innocuous chatting with the right choices to stir doubts; a bit of sabotage to her companions' weaponry until one or two got themselves killed, preferably the sniper... _et voilà_: her merry band of losers will be no more and none would be the wiser.

It would be a child's play to get her vulnerable, confused, and sad to take advantage of the situation and offer her the safety she, he knew that now, craved so much.

Such a perspective was tempting, he admitted. To have her at his whims’ mercy, playing the savior part, reconducting her beliefs, putting her abilities to work under his command… and the two of them would hold hands at the edge of a conquered Hoover Dam, the world around them crumbling, agonizing, the blood of many warriors buying the promise of a new dawn, the Synthesis.

Or even better: the two of them alone amidst ashes, both Legion and NCR, the white of many anonymous skulls littering the earth reflecting a fresh wave of a nuclear dusk as the two of them would share an embrace sweeter than any empty promises of a better future. No NCR, no profligacy, no Synthesis. No Legion, no more rules, no more marching.

No more responsibilities, no more memories.

It was a most beautiful fantasy.

However, he wasn’t here to truncate neither the Courier’s backup muscle nor destabilize her moral support.

No. He was here to observe her, learn her intentions and, given the correct circumstances, earn her favor for the Legion.

Which, if he was totally honest with himself, he wasn’t working to his advantage very well.

Her and her companions’ dynamics… confused him. It compelled something in him that he wasn’t sure he wanted to give into. At least for now.

First, he had to get acquainted with the rules, then to feign that he was game.

He had been a fool thinking that she had to earn his trust by demonstrating that she meant no ill. She had nothing to prove, but he had. He hadn’t to be persuaded at all, but she had.

His approach had been all wrong. Unbeknownstly, Becky had been right about sending him. He had to earn the Courier’s trust.

So, the glorious instant when Vulpes closed the door before the thunderstruck face of the _stupid_ sniper had been a sort of an epiphany, strategy already forming in his brain when he closed the distance to the bed and, instead of addressing the lying form, he opted for sit on the mattress, reclining his back against the headboard.

The small bundle beneath three layers of thick cloth stirred a bit, black short spiky hair emerged from the vortex of mattresses and a puffy face turned to assess briefly the intruder.

“I don’t want to get up.” – she mumbled, turning her head and body on the opposite direction of her visitor.

Vulpes’ voice, soft as silk, answered in the same low tone.

“Then don’t.” – he replied.

A long lapse of time stretched between the two youngsters and Vulpes was already getting himself more comfortable over the warm bed when her small voice reached his ears a second time.

“I don’t want to talk either.”

Oh, but she was talking.

“No need to fill your mouth with words when you can fill it better with breakfast.” – he replied again with that caressing low voice, bringing the coldness of the Nuka crystal bottle to her ear, then to her left temple, marked by the scarring shots, and, finally, to her forehead, trailing beautiful chills where crystal met flesh.

If hesitant, her dainty fingers pried from under the covers to, at the end, grab at the offering, her fingertips barely grazing his.

Slowly, softly, she turned to sit up and, while she was distracted uncorking the metal cap from the bottle with a salient part of the Pip-Boy’s outer case, he slide the half-filled Fancy Lads’ box onto her lap.

Her puffy, reddened lips distracted him when she drank a small gulp of bubbly soda from the bottle’s neck. She drank with such delicacy that it appeared that, instead of downing it, she was kissing it.

Vulpes’ mouth went dry and he unconsciously accepted when she offered him the bottle in silence. The dark soft drink tasted pleasantly cool and exceptionally sweet today.

She also offered him the cakes in the box, but he held a hand, silently compelling her to finish them all.

She ate without uttering a word and also avoiding to look at him as Vulpes lounged on his side of the giant bed.

When she was done, she lied on her back eyeing the ceiling absently as her hands drew circular patterns around her stomach to help digestion.

“What do you want?” – she finally asked, eyes stubbornly set on the ceiling, the hole her bullet had bored the previous day a small crater amidst roads of cracked, dusty paint.

Vulpes’ lips remained as neutral as ever, but his electric blue eyes shone briefly with amusement. Now, she was the one demanding answers.

He would offer none.

“Shall we play a game?” – he asked instead, allowing himself to smile briefly when she turned her head, eyeing him suspiciously – “I would demand a rematch from the last time, but I suspect that strategy game is not the only one you have installed in my device, am I right?”

She gave him an indecipherable look, perhaps weighing his offer or pondering in the hidden meaning of his slight accusation.

“Do you know what roleplaying is?” – she asked, unsure, until his raised eyebrow made her laugh softly – “Silly question. Of course you do.”

He caught on the meaning of her words much later, when her body had moved, with the pass of hours, much closer to his and her hip touched with his as both of them played _‘Grognak & the Ruby Ruins’_ in Multiplayer Mode nestling amidst warm covers and shared body heat.

She played as a character named Maula – the only female option available, really – a presumably War-Maiden of (_Ha!_) Mars and he had chosen to take on the role of a crazed shaman of sorts named Zaxtar. It was fun.

It was like an adventure novel with treasure hunt, exploring and fights based on mathematical statistics. The more points you had on your favor, the more damage you did.

Odd games for odd people in an odd world.

They hadn’t stepped out that room until their stomachs had started protesting after so many hours going without a good resupply.

* * *

**“So, this is the young Decanus who has aided Dead Sea in the taking of Nelson.”**

Knelt with a fist on the ground and a lowered head was Alexus, mouth firmly sealed as it was expected as Gabban had started giving the report to the _Imperator_ himself, who had wanted to hear the confirmation from the very Decanus’ lips.

**“Get up and take that helmet off. I want to see your face.”**

Containing the trembling the treacherous hands were experiencing at the moment, Alexus did as told, suddenly too aware of too long hair grown from weeks staying at that damnable mine getting at the eyes’ corners.

In front of the Decanus, the _Imperator_ squinted a bit, taking in the likeness between the two present twins. Gabban, by his right side, struggled to not letting any emotion slip on his face.

**“Very… interesting.”** – the older man declared after a few seconds that, in Alexus’ mind, felt like eons – **“Vulpes’ Second-In-Command here tells me that you didn’t waste breath in stepping out a conquered Nelson to pursue a conquest of your own down Southwest. A Ranger Station, no less.”**

Alexus couldn’t help but notice how the _Imperator_, quite deliberately, had left Gabban’s name out of the sentence.

“Affirmative, _meus Domine_.” – the Decanus answered respectfully, leaving aside the obvious pride the deed evoked. Vulpes always said that, when dealing with Caesar directly, neutrality was preferred, for many stupid fools had managed to invoke his wrath by just pushing the wrong buttons – “By order of Vulpes Inculta himself, order that was transmitted to me through his most trusted Frumentarius, I led my men into Ranger Station Charlie, Southwest of the Profligate population called ‘Novac’, to teach the NCR a valuable lesson for, besides raiding the place, we left a holodisk with a warning and… several traps I’m sure Your Greatness would have approved to, should any more Republican dogs ought to attempt to reclaim their post.”

Leaning forward over his quadriceps, the dictator rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

**“Vulpes ordered this, you say…”** – then, a very cold smile spread along his features – **“And gave you the opportunity.”** – assessing the young legionary from head to toe, taking in the slightly softer features and defined muscles of both arms and legs, he continued – **“Humor me and answer this question, Decanus: do you intend to become a Frumentarius?”**

Alexus reigned over the inhumane tension that came over each muscle under the armor.

“No, my Lord.”

**“Oh?”**

“This legionary asks for permission to speak freely, my Lord.”

**“Go ahead.”**

Ignoring the warning look Gabban was sending to the Decanus’ general direction, Alexus spoke.

“If only to amuse Your Greatness, I but dare to hope that one day, when the time comes, this legionary would be given the chance to become one of the many shields guarding the Son of Mars, who now deigns to bestow His presence to me.”

Raising greying brows, the new smile the dictator directed to the Decanus was less cold this time.

**“Ambitious, aren’t you?”** – he asked.

“Yes, _meus Domine_.”

For a tense moment, Alexus feared having overstepped boundaries too soon, and even experienced a slight breakdown when the _Imperator_ roared in laughter. Shame making the Decanus’ ears burn furiously behind dirty overgrown blonde hair.

**“I like you, boy.”** – Caesar said in good spirits, clearly pleased – **“For ambition is a telltale symptom of intelligence, and I can see what Vulpes sees in you if your discourse, clearly influenced by him, is of any indication.”**

Alexus swallowed the wave of hurt pride that came after those words. Why would everybody always assume that Vulpes was the only one capable of giving his head further use than to headbutt enemies?!

“Thank you, my Lord.” – the Decanus answered instead.

Nodding, Caesar crossed fingers under his chin.

**“I am very pleased with the results Vulpes’ campaign have delivered onto my lap today; thus, I am pleased with how both Dead Sea and you have played your part on it.”** – he declared, to the twins’ much relief – **“While the reward for the Veteran Decanus will be his new duty: to maintain his position at Nelson without the authority of a supervising Centurion while more troops will be reassigned to him to help in the harassment campaign against the NCR…” **– he said this to Gabban, who acknowledged the order with a curt nod, to turn again to Alexus – **“… Yours will be a well-deserved leisure time here, at The Fort, until I deem otherwise. And your men shall be rewarded in the same fashion, for they ought to be regarded by the rest as an example of what a _contubernium _must represent: unity and strength, for none of them were abated or injured neither at Nelson, nor when facing a whole group of Rangers.”**

Alexus resisted the impulse of raising eyes to Gabban, who surely was thinking the same at the moment about the three miraculously recovered legionaries in record time by the power of Profligate chems.

That game they both had willingly played had rendered good… although _dangerous_ results.

**“And speaking of Rangers…”** – the _Imperator_ continued – **“That wildcat you brought along with you, will also become part of your reward…” **– he added warningly – **“… and your responsibility to bear, Decanus. For, should she managed to escape this encampment, I shall hold you, and _only you_, entirely responsible with the due consequences that would come out of it. Did I express myself clearly?”**

“Yes, my Lord.” – Alexus replied eagerly, excited to have been acquired power over the prisoner’s ownership. For a Decanus, that was no small feat – “Thank you, my Lord.”

**“Alright.”** – the older man expressed in an evidently tired tone, waving his hand to the twins – **“You two may retire. I expect news from Vulpes’ undercover operation with the Wild Card child in the next coming weeks.”** – he warned, pinning Gabban with a hardened stare, a subtle warning of what would await him should he wouldn’t render any results – **“And take care of that hair, Decanus!” **– he exclaimed, a hint of laughter in his voice – **“You wouldn’t want to get mistaken for a goddamned woman, wouldn’t you?”**

Feeling his twin’s tension beside him, Gabban held his breath until Alexus’s answer was delivered.

“No, my Lord.”

And, with that, the blonde siblings abandoned Caesar’s tent with a knot forming in the pit of their respective stomachs.

“Goddamnit, Alex.” – the Frumentarius hissed, low enough that just the two of them could hear the other – “If you are so keen on getting ourselves skinned alive, just fucking declare out loud that the motherfucking Burned Man still lives and let’s be done with it! At least you will die knowing that Vulpes would worship your stupid crucified ass and profess undying love to you for all the Eternity.”

“He already does that without further encouragement.” – the Decanus growled, knowing very well just how incredibly overprotecting their older brother would get in case Alexus would decide to take up his incessant offers to become a Frumentarius. The Decanus was sure that he very likely would go to absurdly stupid lengths to keep his favorite sibling by his sight _all the damn time_. Since they were assimilated, Vulpes had done everything in his power to keep the masquerade in his only sister’s benefit, even if it that meant to slit some throats when nobody was looking… and Alexus was grateful for that… but, somehow, throughout the road of becoming adults… the Decanus had stopped feeling being a woman anymore despite what the body under the armor may say, and Vulpes didn’t seem to grasp on that – “Besides, I don’t think that went too bad, didn’t it?”

Gabban facepalmed himself. It was that or throttling his reckless twin.

“Look, that man sitting on that throne has a towering intellect and has managed not to just create an entirely new nation out of scattered tribes, but also to stay on that same throne for more than three decades!” – he attempted to explain, helplessly – “The less you’ll be around him, the safer you will be! Don’t you see that, in the improbable case you will become part of the Praetorian Guard, he’ll take very little time at guessing what’s under your armor and, immediately, punishing you for that?!” – taking his stubborn sibling’s shoulders with his hands, he added – “For fuck’s sake, Alex! Do your best at rising in rank and become a Centurion or even stab goddamned Lanius in the back and take his place! I will support you! But cease this suicidal nonsense! You know very well that you’ll be better off dead than enduring the fate our Sisters and Neighbors had been subjected to all these years!”

Gabban, despite being softer than a pillow dummy, could be sometimes hard to listen to. And this was one of such times.

And Alexus didn’t want to face the truth. Should Caesar discovered what was under the armor, it shouldn’t matter if he was so intelligent as everybody said he was.

For a warrior is a warrior when they feel and _act_ like a warrior, regardless of gender. The Ranger was a living proof of that.

By that same principle, a man should be a man if they feel and act like a man.

“Decanus.” – the twins heard several paces behind them and, upon turning around, both automatically saluted the person who owned the voice that had spoken up – “A word, if you may.”

“_Ave_, _Summus_ Praetorian Lucius!” – Alexus greeted with no small amount of nervousness – “Of course, sir! Whatever you need.”

Standing in front of the teenagers, despite being well into his forties, the Commander of the Praetorian Guard was quite the figure to behold: rippling muscles even on his hardened prominent jaw coated by a greying dark beard, bodybuilder back and a stature that was remarkable even amidst his own men.

However, despite his intimidating aspect, the man’s expression was amicable.

“I wanted to congratulate you personally for your victories.” – Lucius said. His tone, despite remaining professional all the time, was unusually warm – “To see a young man showing such promise and even daring to be outspoken about his aspirations in front of the very _Imperator_ tells me of the value you could provide to our Guard.” - and, when the man’s hand landed heavily upon the left shoulder plate of the Decanus’ armor, the latter got immensely rigid, unsure of what to expect – “Don’t get discouraged by the old man’s antics.” – he added in a lower tone – “He appreciates a challenge from time to time and you surely have made a Hell of an impression in there.” – then, heavily palming Alexus’ back, where he likely had left a bruise, Lucius concluded – “Keep training, keep pulling all your weight into our army… and who knows how far you could get, Alexus.” – with that, he saluted before taking his leave – “_Vale_, and do take care of each other, would you?” – he said, eyeing Gabban as well – “Family is important and you might need the support of the other when hard times would come knocking at your doorstep.”

And, with that, he disappeared inside Caesar’s tent once more leaving a dazed Alexus, whose expression promptly mutated into a stupid grin whereas Gabban cringed inwardly.

While he meant well, last thing Alex needed was encouragement coming from the _Summus_ Praetorian to aim for a glory that, sooner or later, would render the Decanus at that dark place where Vulpes and he had tried all these years to avoid their sibling to be thrown at.

* * *

Days stretched at a languorous pace as the snow kept falling, forcing the resident supermutants to adopt measures against a possible blocking of the resort’s main door and the few habitable bungalow cabins, where Arcade had decided to move during their stay at Jacobstown so his presence would be as scarce as possible to not to upset Six’s already delicate mind state.

Vulpes had never seen so much white together.

Neither he had seen resilience that could compare to the perennial presence of crows perched under the lodge’s roof eaves. The silent black birds of prey greatly contrasting with the almost blinding greyness reflecting from the sky.

It was like having stepped into another entirely different dimension, where the cold was the only norm.

“Not want to sound alarming.” – Marcus, the appointed supermutant Mayor of the town, had said after a particularly worrisome blizzard, something that has been unheard of since the bombs fell two hundred years ago – “But the weather’s not behaving normally and maybe you gotta postpone your departure a couple days more.” – while he was explaining this, Rex’s head had been resting over Six’s lap, the animal still not in his highest peak after such an invasive surgery.

The girl had nodded in silence, scratching the dog’s ears absently while his tail had been the only indication that he, indeed, had returned from the dead.

His awakening had been a tad traumatic for both the animal and the hopeful girl, who had found two important things about her canine companion’s cranial surgery: first and foremost was that Rex sometimes didn’t recognize her or any other member of their group excluding Vulpes, whose interactions with the former owner of the brain had seemingly imprinted vague associations with gestures, voice tones and silent commands (the Frumentarius wasn’t risking sputtering some Latin just to satiate his curiosity) he recognized from Lupa’s Legion training.

The second was that… such a psychological strain, even coming from a dog whose brain processes were – presumably – much less complicated than an average human’s, left the animal exhausted almost all of the time.

Six still recalled when she had approached the dog the moment Doctor Henry had retired the general anesthesia and, upon opening his eyes, Rex had started sniffing her hands as if he were seeing her for the first time, risking some lapping from time to time but still unsure about her.

However, when Boone had approached, the canine had started to growl in a very unfriendly way.

“It’s okay, pup, it’s okay.” – he had said in a very low voice, taking the red beret from his shaved head very slowly – “See?”

The animal had stopped growling, cocking the head to one side while wailing a confused _‘Arooo?’_ as if not entirely sure of what to expect from the bulky sniper.

Clearly used to have patrol dogs by his side, Boone, had extended a hand, allowing the animal to familiarize again with his smell and presence. And Rex had calmed after that.

That single situation had told Six that maybe there was still something of the old Rex out there to salvage, given his earlier stated aversion to hats… or maybe the animal’s reaction had been due to recognizing a piece of garment from the NCR Army, thus awakening the Legion training.

Because she knew, without a doubt, that _Zorro_ had brought a canine Legion brain with him.

Not that she complained, for the animal had been nothing but close to her since he had awakened. Perhaps due to disorientation or seeing her as the lesser threat in the room, the dog had stayed with her, trusting her with the same pillow role he had adjudged previously to _Zorro_.

“Rex.” – she muttered to the animal’s ear, sat by a window, watching the snow fall and with the dog’s muzzle over her lap.

If delayed, Rex’s response had been sniffing while lapping at her hand.

Definitely, he recognized his old name.

Which made her wonder…

“What was her name?” – she asked, not turning from the window – “The previous owner of Rex’s new brain, I mean.”

_Zorro_, who had been laying over an old dusty sofa while reading on the Pip-Boy, stirred a bit.

“_Loba_.” – he replied in Spanish.

They weren’t alone, so Six assumed that she would have to rack her brain for the correct Latin addressing of _‘She-wolf’_.

Lowering her voice and her lips next to the dog’s ear, she tried.

“Lupa.”

This time, the response had been quicker when the animal had raised its head, alert and questioning.

So, there was something of the old Legion mongrel personality there as well. How complicated.

“That’s okay.” – she muttered as she patted the canine’s belly, allowing it to settle down her lap again, paws neatly folded against its chest and tongue lolling out, enjoying the attention – “That’s okay.”

In time, she dared to hope, it will be okay, anyway.

* * *

The instant Stella had found herself alone gagged and cuffed of both arms and legs to the tent pole she had been left to await her “new master”, a million strategies had started to form inside her head once she had been completely sure that no amount of force on her part would break her binds from this damnable pole amidst of a damnable camp full of sadistic men that treated women as sex toys.

Replaying possible outcomes and conversations with this “master” inside her head, her mental efforts went to waste as soon as that blue-eyed son of a bitch had stepped inside the tent announcing that he was now the one holding the leash.

At first, she had mistaken him with the other blonde man with the deep voice, but this one, despite bearing a striking resemblance to the aforementioned, was the actual bastard who had captured her alive after besting her in a fistfight cowardly surrounded by his lackeys. She would recognize his juvenile light voice in the middle of a crowd.

Any insult she could have thrown to him was effectively muffled by the gag between her teeth.

“So, here we are, Stella.” – he said, to the Ranger’s much disgust, as he sat on the ground in front of her. Her name filthy and devoid of its melodic cadences on his lips – “Are you still sure of that challenge of yours now that you have witnessed just how vast and heavily populated our encampment is?” – he asked, quickly removing the gag from her mouth to pry his fingers off her teeth’s reach – “Well?”

She would have spat him in his face but, since her capture, she had drunk very scarcely and her throat felt like sandpaper.

“Keep coming you Legion dogs, and I will keep breaking bones.” – she replied defiantly.

However, to her much disappointment, the man in front of her, which was incredibly young if she was totally honest, smiled.

“Good.” – he said, almost appraisingly – “However, before I am throwing you into the arena, you will eat and train.”

“I will never fucking train with you, bastard!” – she exclaimed, her dry throat breaking her voice painfully – “Go fuck yourself like all of your pals do with each other's here on a daily basis!”

“Your pathetic attempts at provoking me by throwing innuendoes about a crime Caesar punishes with an iron fist will get you nowhere.” – he replied odiously calm, as if the insults had nothing to do with his pride – “And I wasn’t asking you, but rather _ordering_ you to train with me.” – he punctuated, shortening the distance between their faces – “And you will listen to what I have to say should you wish to survive around here.”

“Do you think that I fear you?” – she spat back – “Try to force me into combat, and I will take with me you and all of the silly skirt-boys that would dare step in front of me.” – then, her countenance darkened – “Try to force _other things_ in my person and you shall lose them. Gruesomely.”

But he gave her a humorless laugh.

“Let’s be perfectly clear about a few things before we engage in further discussion.” – he stated – “Your situation here will depend either on your collaboration or your lack thereof. Your choice entirely.” – he continued – “Agree to what I have to offer and, besides getting three meals a day - which is way more than any of the slaves gets here, should you want to know – you will also get the peace of spirit that nobody will force _anything_ on your person should you keep training and surviving whatever matches I will allow on your behalf on the arena.”

“Nobody except _you_, I assume.” – she replied with utter disgust.

However, his face was serious now.

“Ranger.” – he addressed her gravelly – “When I say _‘nobody’_, I mean _no-fucking-body_ will touch you in any other way than battling, as long as you behave.”

Eyeing him with distrust, Stella squinted her dark eyes, searching for any lies or tricks this motherfucker might be holding from her to toy with her psyche. She had heard of the twisted games Legion torturers played with NCR prisoners before tearing them apart piece by piece until they either left behind corpses or worse: hollowed cases of what those people had been before, shadows of their previous selves.

“I don’t trust you.” – she declared.

“Neither I trust _you_ to behave around our encampment by the moment.” – he conceded – “However, until we get acquainted with each other’s intentions, you shall remain here. I’ll send some of the women here to bathe you and bring you food. Attack them, and you shall be punished by ten lashes that I will immediately be sure the healers tend, should you wanted to use your punishment as a free pass to escape by dying.” – he warned, cutting her already barely-formed plan to get out of this Hell – “Behave, and your life, besides turning out much easier than you would expect, shall be preserved until the day everything around us would change for the better.” – with this, he rose from his sitting position and went to the tent’s entrance – “Don’t die out of misplaced pride, but survive and live to tell.” – he finished, exiting the tent and leaving a very dumbfounded Stella, whose views on the world would not sway so easily… although, if she was perfectly honest with herself, the world had changed too fast around her to even begun to grasp the new rules of the game.

* * *

More days passed in silence, memories threatening to take what remained of Six’s sanity to Hell as, one by one, the faces of her old unit kept appearing in her dreams as she had left them after pulling the trigger.

Most of them had been beyond recognition when she had reached their hiding places. Some, given their training, sometimes being able to bypass the code of the slave collars as some of them had studied how robotic enginery worked, had actually managed to escape Paradise Falls before Eulogy Jones had managed to get some profit out of their hides.

Others had been sold to masters crueler than the very Mr. Burke.

One way or another, upon leaving the Vault, she had already noticed that a small group among them didn’t recognize their own names when called or disregarded her silent commands so they could escape the Talon mercs Burke had hired to spoliate Vault 5.

Alone, without their support to devise an escaping plan, she had resorted to killing them as she had been instructed upon adverse circumstances would ensue.

And later, almost every last of them had lost their minds either from their traumatic awakening from cryostasis or due to all the misery they have had to endure their last years of life out at an irradiated Wasteland that had swallowed everything they once had ever loved and known.

One of the boys, she sadly didn’t remember his name anymore, had run back to the Eastern Coast at the Commonwealth and had relentlessly searched for his parents’ house. The ruined structure had been infested by bloatflies and the critters had managed to injure him so badly that, when Six had arrived at the place, the bugs’ larvae were eating his already gangrenous right arm from the inside.

A bullet between the brows had put an end to his suffering.

Pinching the inner corners of her eyes to prevent tears coming for the umpteenth time, Courier Six of the Mojave Express, followed closely by her silent cyberdog - an old and a new companion at the same time - wandered absently the chilly corridors of the old resort tightly wrapped in an old airman bomber jacket Boone had lent her this morning.

As much as Vero kept insisting on cheering her up, Six wanted to be alone, unable to face her group and tell them that she… was a fraud. That she couldn’t deal with them the same way she had been unable to deal with her old unit.

She didn’t want to end blowing each one of their heads the same way she had done the last three years with the others in case her stupid plan to keep her stupid ass safe ended backfiring in the worst possible manner. She couldn’t do it a second time.

She couldn’t bear it anymore.

She should just tell them that… their little adventure… regrettably…

“Aha!” – she heard a voice at her back – “There you are!”

The girl tensed as a pair of gloved hands lied upon her shoulders.

“Put on these.” – the voice, pertaining to none other than Veronica, instructed as another pair of patched-up gloves were deposited over her palms – “We’re going outside!”

Six didn’t really want to, but soon she forgot her depressed state when she turned around to see that, besides Veronica, by her side stood Cass, who looked the worse for wear as her red nose and glassy eyes spoke of more than two rounds of liquor were running down her blood system; Raul, who was bearing a helpless look of discomfort and… _Zorro_ and Boone, whose copycat undaunted expressions felt entirely forced.

“What’s this?” – Six asked, noticing the gloves everybody was wearing – “What are you saying about getting outside?”

“I’ve made these for us all.” – Veronica replied, explaining the gloves – “So we don’t freeze once we are coming out on the porch. I’m sick of being trapped here and we all need some fresh air to clear up our minds. Right, guys?”

The answer she received was a general unenthusiastic groan.

Six bit her lower lip, very aware of the unwillingness everybody, minus Vero, presented.

But she meant so well… and it, likely, had been a tough job not just sewing the gloves for everyone, but also getting all of them together for her…

“Please, Boss.” – Raul rasped, directing her a pleading look – “Say yes so she stops from accosting everybody.” – then, he produced a long-suffering sigh when Cass rounded him with her arms slurring _‘abuelito’_.

“Yes, please.” – _Zorro_ echoed the ghoul, still bearing that default bored expression that seemed to mask weariness.

Boone, as always, said nothing, leaving the decision up to her. Always up to her.

Sighing, Six finally acquiesced.

And not ten minutes after, she found herself amidst a dense layer of snow that almost reached up her knees while Lily, who had been outside all the time caring for the bighorners, rolled a giant ball of snow.

**“I’ve always read about these customs humans had before the War, when there was a time, a celebration of sorts, once in a year they called _‘Christmas’_.”** – the Nightkin boomed cheerfully.

“How you possibly know about that, Lily?” – Six asked, curious, as she rolled another snowball on the ground aided by Vero and Cass, whose hangover seemingly had gotten better with the cold.

**“Well, you see, munchkin.” **– the supermutant answered – **“I grew up in Vault 17. Pre-War knowledge was common there. You had to pass the G.O.A.T. exam on such things before you were assigned a job.”**

“Vault 17… where was that?”

**“Aww, someone wants to hear grandma's stories!”** – Lily exclaimed, delighted – **“Well, cutie-pie, Vault 17 was located in New California! I never even saw the sun until I was 75 years old… that was when supermutants raided the Vault and carried a lot of us off.”** – after a pregnant pause, when Six was about to blurt out some apology for dwelling into such a painful moment for the old lady, Lily exclaimed – **“Yes, Leo, I'm getting to that part!” **– after that, she kept talking as if it had been nothing – **“They made me one of them, and they put me to work in an army that was going to conquer California.”**

“Wait… you mean…” - upon looking the Nightkin in the goggles-obscured eyes, Six suddenly saw more than simply a mutated old lady who had happened to be the most tender… and scary soul she had ever met – “The Mariposa Military Base in California. There was where the first strain of FEV was created, presumably to battle the Blue Flu in the 50’s…”

A pair of hands found her shoulders again, and then, Veronica’s voice spoke.

“Six…” – she started, unsure and terribly worried about the course the present conversation was taking – “Are you alright?”

The girl blinked twice, as if emerging from deep reminiscence. Somehow, a stream of data she would have wished to forget started to load inside her brain.

Always the unwanted were the thoughts that ended back into her system. Her curse, her punishment.

“Lily.” – she asked, taking her eyes back to the supermutant – “When all of this happened?”

**“Oh, more than a hundred years ago, peanut.”** – the interpellated replied nonchalantly, as if it was nothing – **“The land was far more irradiated and the first settlers turned out new species overnight, such as the ghouls and many other variants that, either the Brotherhood of Steel or any of the other important military factions at the time, have wiped off over the years.”**

Without saying anything, Six walked directly to the Nightkin and embraced tightly her muscular midsection. Rex, by their side, whined.

**“Awww, someone misses grandma!”** – Lily exclaimed with delight, totally unaware of the girl’s glassy eyes or the ashamed expression the Brotherhood Scribe wore at that moment. The Brotherhood of Steel had been created the same year the bombs fell and their first Elder, Roger Maxson, had been initially an Army deserter when he and his men had discovered what kind of experiments had been conducted, with the U.S.A. Government’s blessing, at the Mariposa Military Base.

Seemingly, Six had been aware of this as well, for her misguided attempt at comfort an old woman whose transformation had been so traumatic that she was incapable of feeling grief anymore seemed to suggest so.

Eyeing the scene from the rounded platform at the right side of the lodge’s entrance, Vulpes sat in one of the chipped wood benches rubbing his gloved hands while prodding at the layer of snow with the point of one of his boots as he received, from time to time, the disgusting smell of the cigarette the NCR dog was smoking a few paces away.

He heard steps crunching on the ice behind him and, before he could address the new arrival, they spoke.

“Seems the pre-War Government, thus the faction my father belonged to, have much to answer for.”

Unblinking, Vulpes did not turn to face the Followers doctor, although he replied:

“You have moved to the bungalows.” – he observed – “Considering the weather, I wouldn’t quite call it a smart move on your part, Dr. Gannon.”

Arcade grimaced, eyeing the small girl from distance, wishing to be able to join her and Veronica, and Lily, and Raul, and Cass… and even Rex once more as they had made a sort of a pineapple bunch while dissuading Six to keep on the gigantic snowman making.

“What else could I do?” – he asked – “She won’t talk to me anymore, she won’t look me in the eye, she…” – he sighed – “She’s terrified of Henry and me.”

“And with reason, won’t you say?” – the young man replied with a flat intonation as if the present conversation bored him to no end – “However, I haven’t seen you attempting to mend that rift.”

“What… what are you saying?”

Vulpes inhaled a mouthful of cold air, his lungs feeling invigorated with it.

“That you are a coward.” – he stated without any adornments, unwilling to play the psychoanalyst with this one – “A hysteric girl points a gun to your head and your answer is to move to another building to avoid confrontations? Pathetic.”

“Watch that tongue, _tribal_.” – the odious voice of the sniper cut through their conversation like a knife – “You aren’t _precisely_ the one to speak of courage here.”

Vulpes gave him a curt laugh, still not turning around to face neither of the men.

“Well now, didn’t your elders taught you how rude is to listen to conversations that are none of your business, _sniper_?” – the Frumentarius replied calmly, smoothly, slippery as a snake – “However, regarding your accusation… do you really think I would shy from a confrontation with you should you dare to provoke me beyond a few ill-placed words?”

Boone’s visage darkened.

“Wanna test that?” – the man defied, taking a step to the insolent brat, the revolting smoke of his cigarette grating on Vulpes’ nerves as the young man turned his head and gave him a belligerent look.

“The real question is… would _you_ want to?” – he hissed, a petulant half-smile gracing his lips.

But before anything could happen, Arcade slapped the bench’s backrest.

“Oh, cut the crap, the two of you!” – he exclaimed with exasperation, turning first to the sniper – “Boone, I really appreciate the help, but let me chose my own battles, okay?” – then turned to Vulpes – “And you… fine, message received. Even if I don’t like your tone, your words carry out some truth: I should try to approach her instead of cowering in my hole.” – he frowned when he saw the approving nod the other gave him – “Any suggestions of where I should begin?”

Vulpes’ attention turned back to the snow, testing how further he could sink his boots on it.

“Talk with Becky.” – he replied without looking at him – “Maybe she can provide you with good advice and even some help mediating between you and the Courier.”

“Veronica? But…”

“Asking advice from a soldier and a foreigner is not going to report you further insight on your problems.” – he declared – “Talk to her or don’t. But don’t come here expecting consolation, because there’s none to give. At least on my part.”

Huffing, Arcade stomped before him and gave him a hurt look.

“Yes. Thank you, by the way, for saving poor old whining me the other day." - he expressed acidly before turning heel to the lodge.

Watching his sensitive comrade go away, Boone gave his back to the irritating lanky piece of crap.

"Asshole." - he muttered under his breath as he gave another drag to his cigar.

Nevertheless, he received a comeback.

"Likewise." - the albino shit replied with that disgusting oily voice everyone but Boone seemed to find so charming.

The sniper repressed the growing desire of stomping over his stupid face until he spat, one by one, the teeth forming that self-sufficient wolfish grin of his.

* * *

Freeside received Gabban almost a week later since he departed from Fortification Hill to communicate Dead Sea, now stationed in Nelson, of his new duties as its conqueror and keeper.

Many NCR prisoners, all soldiers, had been taken and the veteran Decanus had been sending them, slowly, one by one to be crucified at the center of town.

In a very Vulpes-like fashion, Dead Sea was taken great pains to ensure that the prisoners remained alive on their crosses longer than necessary so their comrades from the neighboring Camp Forlorn Hope and Ranger Station Echo would witness how powerless they were against the Legion.

Gabban didn’t question the veteran Decanus’ tactical decisions and had departed as soon as he had delivered his orders and resupplied himself. After all, this had been Vulpes’ plan and Gabban wouldn’t for the life of him contradict his brother and immediate superior’s orders.

Before going straight to the Strip to assess Alerio’s work on the Omertas, the Frumentarius had stopped at The Atomic Wrangler to wait for this safehouse keeper Vulpes had instructed him to keep an eye on.

Atticus, the aforementioned _Custos_, ended being an Afro-American man well into his twenties with way too many pretenses for his own good and very little grasp on the situation he had gotten himself into.

“And you say… that _Alan_ is paying you for… what? Reporting of any fuck ups the _boss_ may or not do?” – he knew he sounded incredulous and a bit _condescending_ when he had summed up the situation, warning the _Custos_ to use fake names and vague descriptions to address the themes they were discussing amidst drinks, disapproving immensely when the other legionary had asked the bartender for a Rum & Nuka.

However, the man had kept with his unrefined cover, talking a tad too loud for Gabban’s tastes, sipping on an alcoholic beverage while taking his attention out of the conversation from time to time to place his eyes on some hooker’s ass.

“Yeah.” – he nodded – “Doesn’t the Fox has filled you up already with the details? He’s your boss, after all.”

“And now, he’s yours as well.” – the Frumentarius had warned, eyeing him with distaste. How Vulpes had failed to notice this rat following him thorough the desert escaped Gabban’s comprehension entirely. It must have been the pressure of these last weeks – “And it would do you some good to recall it if you want to preserve not merely your position, but also _your life_.” – after that, taking the alcoholic beverage from the other man’s hands and emptying it discreetly on a vacant flower pot near their chairs, he added – “The first rule of this work is, unless _extraordinary _circumstances ensue, _never_ partake in the consumption of any substance that could alter your senses, namely chems or alcohol. Cigarettes, up to some point, are allowed as long as they help you to blend in.”

“So I have to stick to… what? Fucking soft drinks and juices?” – Atticus replied, clearly annoyed at having spent his good twenty caps on a drink he barely had tasted. His business with the Frumentarii, minus Alerio himself, were proving not to be as profitable as he would have wished – “What about whores?”

Internally, Gabban counted to ten before answering.

“As long as they are ultimately used as a source of information, you may indulge in some innocuous intercourse.” – he answered, recalling his first time as a Frumentarius on the Strip and how little he had made use of his training, to his endless shame. Having been Anguis and not Vulpes in charge, his skeletal remains would have been decorating a cross long ago – “However, until you are formally accepted within our ranks, those expenses will be run on account of your own pockets.”

“Wait…” – the other man said while holding up a hand as if he hadn’t heard correctly – “I am becoming one of you?”

“Should you prove useful to the Fox AND didn’t screw up by talking about things you aren’t supposed to with the _wrong people_, you may as well consider getting a promotion in the near future.”

Atticus’ face quickly shifted from surprise to grinning goofily.

“What does entail being one of you?” – of course it had to be his first question – “Tell me about the perks.”

Gabban bit his tongue to prevent some obscenity coming out of his mouth. Barely twenty minutes talking with this fool and he was already regretting it.

“Besides better payment and a chance at _educating yourself_ beyond the rigid doctrines you have been taught all your life?” – and then, leaning forwards to meet the other’s look, he added – “Or would you rather remain on the same dull, _dishonoring_ job you have been _tossed to_ after _failing_ to prove your worth as a soldier?”

Atticus writhed under the younger man’s stare, uncomfortable at being reminded of his disgraceful position only elder or inept legionaries got after all the other options ran off.

“Be aware of this.” – Gabban sentenced, to his infinite pleasure at putting a rookie in his due place – “You have the extraordinary chance of proving yourself a second time.” – and then, leaning over the other’s ear, he added – “This is a mercy that the Fox, thus _Caesar_, would NOT extend again should you fail.”

After that, earning the idiot’s full attention as it was intended right from the start, Gabban filled him on the details and the procedures he should observe before reporting, what was allowed and what was considered _unacceptable_ by Frumentarii standards.

He left a very pensive _Custos_ behind, taking the left side down Fremont Street to redirect his steps towards the Strip North Gate.

And he waited at the large line until it was his turn.

_“Apologies sir, but your passport has gotten a permanent ban out of the Free Economic Zone of New Vegas.”_ – the checking securitron chanted impassively – _“Should you wouldn’t agree with the present status your passport is, please present your complaints by means of filling a reclamation form to our Main Office by the left or present a formal appeal at Camp McCarran should you wish to engage the monorail services. Have a good day, sir.”_

Unable to produce any sound, Gabban submitted his passport to the checking again only to get the same results.

“Move aside, asshole!” – one of the waiting gamblers several turns behind shouted at him – “The line’s gotta move with or without you!”

Still unable to produce a sound, Gabban was incapable of making the daring fool swallow his words as he was conducted to the Main Office, a small hovel made in its entirety out of salvaged scraped rusty metal, where a bored-looking old woman rose her eyes from the unsurmountable pile of paperwork over her desk as the Frumentarius entered.

“Information, credit check or complaints?” – she asked in a bored tone – “Other than that, the layout maps cost five caps per unit.”

“My passport says I have been banned from the Strip.” – the young man explained, rather desperate at this point, still unable to process what could have gone wrong – “It must be a mistake, I haven’t…”

However, the old lady limited herself to extend him a pencil and a clipboard with an empty form over it.

“I only deal on complaints, hun.” – she replied with the same bored inflection – “Either fill this or try at McCarran. The answer to your reclamation should be available in a month or so. So, either you write down here a postal address to get the answer by means of a courier, or you come over here in thirty days.”

Gabban abandoned the office even more confused than before but, with the coming days as many more agents were denied once submitted to either their passports or the due credit check, the Fox’s Second-In-Command reached a quick conclusion.

Mr. House had banned the Legion from the Strip.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ... don't hate me for borrowing Sgt. Hartman's "Full Metal Jacket" monologue, for I am very inept at coming up with good military-based dialogue.  
Anyway, dense chapter (again) is dense. Sorry for not dwelling much into the group's dynamics and, instead, picking Vulpes' siblings as the protagonists of nearly half of the chapter.  
Here you got some answers to Six's conundrum and also some of Alex's character development (I've found myself quite attached to this character, to be honest. I know the actual Alexus from the game is rather unimpressive, so here's a meatier character). Vulpes is also trying his hardest of not being too petulant... and failing miserably at it xD  
Thank you for the last comments and Kudos. You're the sugar on my morning coffee <3


	14. Naughty boy

* * *

Apprehension, cowardice, resistance and _shame _found a way inside Six’s psyche at once when she was approached by Arcade a couple days later since the snowman incident with Lily, when the teenager had decided to conclude their stay at Jacobstown as she saw that Rex’s strength had returned with an uncharacteristic vigor when, upon leaving the lodge to take a morning stroll after breakfast, Six had watched, bewildered, how the canine had broken in a chase after the many daring corvids perched all around the snowy courtyard.

She had announced this at midday and her decision had been met with general relief. The group needed to leave behind the supermutant town and the terrible secrets that had transpired there.

Nobody had mentioned to her anything related to her outburst and she was grateful for that. Even _ Zorro _was behaving uncharacteristically compliant around the topic avoiding further prying on anything related to her past on their recent interactions through the Pip-Boy chat at midnight, choosing instead to bombard her with questions about cultural references he often heard from her or came across when he watched or read the many archives she had chosen to overload his device memory’s with.

It was funny and a bit odd to educate a mind as sharp and inquisitive as _ Zorro’s _about things she had considered silly and unimportant up to this day.

** _11:52 PM Tuesday, February 28, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ … So, according to your explanation, the “Big Bad Wolf” thing from this afternoon is a direct result of you having been read a children’s tale about a girl in red trusting a talking wolf, and me happening to wear my Vexillarius headdress that time at Nipton. _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ Elementary, my dear Watson. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ I beg your pardon? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Aw, sorry about that. Sherlock Holmes’ quotation. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Who? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Fictional character. A private detective. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ I see. This is one of those cultural references, isn’t it? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Yasss ;) _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Why do you always do that? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Do what? _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ At the end of some sentences you use combinations of punctuation marks that are, to my knowledge, grammatically incorrect and do not serve to bring further emphasis into them. _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Wait, what? You mean this? ;) That’s an emote, dude. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ A what? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ An “emotion icon”. Shit, I didn’t know you were unfamiliar with those. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Which icon are you talking about? _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Uhm… see this? ;-) That’s a smiling face winking. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ … _ _  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _ Wait, I’ll show you. _

After attempting to explain to him with the “eyes, nose, mouth” example with no luck, she had instructed him to go to the chat’s Settings and enable the emoji chart.

** _12:01 AM Wednesday, March 01, 2282_ **

**_Fox:_**_ May I ask what purpose does this serve?__  
_**_Courier VI:_**_ To clarify intentions to the person on the other side of the chat? Maybe?__  
_**_Fox:_**_ I see.__  
_**_Courier VI:_**_ Try it out! :D__  
_**_Fox:_** _凸( •̀_•́ )凸__  
_**_Courier VI: _**_Ha! You learn fast. _ಠ‿ಠ

Step by step, somehow, she felt that the dynamics between them were slowly improving.

However, she couldn’t say the same about Arcade, whose timid approach had been met with eyes big enough to send the man in a stuttering mess about experiments and Doctor Henry wanting to meet with Lily.

Six already knew what he had been talking about, so the exchange had been immensely awkward for both parts but blissfully short. Even though she was perfectly aware of how unfair she was being with him, Six still hadn’t gathered up the courage to either face her own demons or… ask Arcade to please leave the group.

She was an asshole. An asshole and a _ coward_.

“Are you really, really sure that you want to do this, Lily?” – she found herself asking after the old scientist had put on both sides of the Nightkin’s cranium several electrodes to read her brain waves by means of a working electroencephalogram connected to the lab’s main computer. Apparently, the old man had a variation of the standard Stealth Boy in his power that had been developed and serialized only and specifically for the Enclave to use during the Great War.

But the thing was that the Mark II Stealth Boy was just a prototype and, while the invisible field lasted twice the time than a regular one, thus ensuring a clearer reading of the brain waves while wearing it, it also increased the risk for an FEV patient to aggravate a pre-existent dementia.

And Doctor Henry had chosen Lily because she seemed the less unthreatening of her kind, thus the less likely to undergo a psychotic breakdown.

But Six wasn’t so sure about that.

However, Lily had given her one of those incredibly rare facial gestures that had resembled the best approximation she could muster to a smile. Coming from a long-term FEV affected patient, that was no small thing.

**“Of course, dearie.”** – had been her kinda soft reassuring.

Biting nervously her right thumb, Six had added weakly:

“You can always say no…”

**“I know that, dearie.”** – the Nightkin had replied, messing softly with her spiky hair before ushering the girl to keep her distance from her so the test would proceed without impediments.

The whole group had been present when the testing had come to fruition, revealing a load of data specs that, if the ex-Enclave doctor was right, could shed some light on the Nightkin schizophrenia problem.

However, it seemed that the experiment had been overheard by Keene, who had violently knocked the door down backed by two eager lackeys, demanding Doctor Henry handed out the Stealth Boy prototype AND the specs.

The tension had been palpable on the lab, where the only exit had been blocked by three sturdy supermutants as the rest of the humanoid occupants had reached for their respective weapons.

Upon watching this, knowing that confronting Keene and the other two, in the best of cases, would end in resulting several casualties on both sides, Six had first eyed the Nightkin, preparing themselves to launch at the insolent bugs in front of them, and then her group: while the scientific part, namely Arcade, Henry and Calamity, had only their hands over their sheathed energy guns; Boone, Vero, Cass and even Raul were pointing guns and Power Fist towards the intruders as Rex had started growling menacingly. Lily was eyeing with a disoriented gaze Keene’s group, muttering something about “always causing trouble”.

The only one who seemed dead calm was _ Zorro_, who was giving her a _ very _meaningful look as he discreetly pointed towards the Nightkin trio.

She gave him a panicked look which he answered by hardening his stare.

Counting down to ten as her feet took her in front of Keene, she directed her face towards the floor as she addressed the angry supermutant.

“Keene…” – she began – “Listen… I know our prolonged presence here has bothered you and I’m sorry about that. We are leaving today so your kind wouldn’t feel threatened anymore by our staring… but, please, don’t sabotage the doctor’s experiment that is, primarily, to benefit your cause.”

However, the smug Nightkin was having none of it.

**“Do you truly believe that I find your ** ** _insignificant_ ** ** presence remotely threatening, human?”** – he scoffed – **“No. This ** ** _very reasonable_ ** ** petition comes from long back, when we discovered the prototype and here the human doctor tricked us into believing that it was inoperative, but I knew better.”** – he added by giving Henry an accusing stare – **“Jacobstown was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place to find a cure… But, instead, we wait and wait. I'm sick of waiting!”** – he boomed – **“And I’m also sick of dealing with you humans and your disrespectful staring!” ** – leaning over her, a muscled monster baring fangs to a scared child, he threatened – **“Get out of my way or I will squish you like the bug you are!”**

Six was about to cry, feeling like a failure, unable to keep her group well and alive just as she had done almost six years before… until a chalky pair of hands came to rest upon her shoulders, gave her a familiar squeeze she immediately associated with the one he had given her at Nipton, offering hope amidst ashes, and then… he took her jaw to orientate her sight directly towards Keene.

She trembled between those hands that obliged her to confront the Nightkin’s unnatural stare as the mutant bared teeth to her.

However, as her eyes peered into Keene’s, she discovered something that gave her some pause.

Because, instead of finding rage or even discomfort at being stared at, she read into his eyes an emotion that she wouldn’t have associated with a creature as powerful as a supermutant: anxiety.

“He who _ demands _ respect has to _ earn it _ first.” – _ Zorro’s _ calmed voice filled the air, his ribcage vibrating softly against her shoulders as he spoke – “However, before me_,_ I don’t see anything respectable at all, but rather a desperate _ drug-addict _ whose only solution he can come up with is _ surrender _ to the very problem he wants to escape from in the first place.”

**“You dare to…”** – Keene growled.

Behind the pair, the silent sniper lined his rifle’s lens with the monster’s right eye. He attacked the girlie, a bullet will be perforating his mutated brains before he could complete the action.

Nonetheless, reassured by the young man’s presence behind her, bodily heat pivoting from one another like a closed electric circuit, Six spoke as well.

“Have you ever considered that, by interrupting this research, you may as well be _condemning _your ilk to _permanent damage _just because you couldn’t bear to be _patient _over a _ human _attempting to _save _the Nightkin?” – she asked, emboldened – “Even if you left, what you do in the Wasteland affects all the mutants here, but you didn't think about that, did you?” – she added, letting slip an accusatory undertone between sentences, ignoring the mutant’s increasingly frowning stare. She was done with his persistent bullying, she wasn’t going to keep putting up with his crap by cowering like a rabbit. She could be small... but, by no means, she was _insignificant _ – “Go ahead and be like Tabitha and Davison. That’s _ exactly _ how a _ selfish human _ would operate instead of a _ Nightkin leader_, you know?”

Under the stare of the grey mass of muscles that was Keene, Vulpes and Six steeled themselves either to dodge a massive blow… or becoming a conjoined amalgam of chunked flesh, blood and viscera splattering the lab floor.

Either way, none of them expected the next words that came off Keene’s mouth.

**“Very well, humans.”** – he hissed, clearly displeased – **“You've made your point, and I withdraw my... request.”**

With that, without further words, he got off the entrance, followed by the other two as all of them retired into the shadows, where they were at their element.

Once they were out of sight, the entire room breathed relief as Vero came immediately to Six’s side, hugging her tightly while Raul approached and gave Vulpes his backpack and a silent nod the young man promptly returned.

They needed to get out of town as soon as possible.

* * *

Raul Alfonso Tejada had been living more than he cared to admit… but he still counted up the years since the bombs fell.

He had been thirty at that time, and he had thought that he had already experienced everything a man from a mid to low social status could aspire to.

He had been wrong.

As he trekked amidst the mountain range while sometimes struggling to keep with the rest’s pace, his thoughts went from the Boss to the rest of their companions.

Boss or _ Jefecita_, as he preferred to mentally address her, was too young for this shit.

And then, learning that, perhaps, giving the nature of her origin Vault, she could be - chronologically speaking - the group’s second or third eldest, depending on the difference between her and Lily’s birthdates, Raul couldn’t stop thinking that she still had experienced too much grief for the time she had been conscious in this world.

And yet… that candid innocence she tried to dissimulate all the time told him that she still hadn’t experienced all the due stages and joys a girl her – biologically speaking – age should have.

Even Veronica, who had been living an isolated existence, first within the ranks of her paramilitary faction, then as a “Procurement Specialist” (the kind of title, Raul was willing to put his hand in the fire, the Brotherhood of Steel probably bestowed upon the undesirable challenging minds who dared question authority) scavenging for supplies at the 188; looked like she had experienced what was like to be a young woman at least to some extent.

And let’s not start with miss Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Because Raul had never seen a woman who was so in tune with her own femininity… and alcohol… and life in general. If there was a word that could define Cassidy, that would be “lived”. For she could go happily to her grave knowing she had lived, yes… and what a life!

But the Boss? She was like a tiny clumsy duckling freshly out of the eggshell, too disoriented to even notice her own feet.

Raul had been seventeen once, and he had never met a seventeen-year-old girl this incredibly oblivious of her own femininity.

Of course he had been relieved that she wouldn’t give any credit to the many lecherous looks she had received when they had set foot on The Atomic Wrangler in Freeside asking for work and the Garrets’ male twin had given her the task to find some prostitutes that met certain ‘special’ requirements.

That had been the most _ inadequate _ task ever to give to a girl like her. The poor thing had blushed all the way, first asking Beatrix Russell really cutely if she would entertain the notion of changing careers, then this Santiago defaulter who had thrown at her all the silly innuendoes he could come up with until Boone had stepped in threatening to _ “feed Santiago a knuckle sandwich until he starts shitting teeth for a whole damn month”_.

And then, when it had come to programming F.I.S.T.O., she had asked Cassidy for counsel when it came for “dirty commands” a sexbot should have.

The whole issue, besides awkward, had been downright hilarious.

Since he had been rescued from Tabitha’s hands at Black Mountain, Raul has had his good share of fun time hanging around with these crazy kids.

But coming back to the Boss, besides the laughs Raul has had around her… it also had pained him to watch how the girl tried so hard to keep so much of her group’s disparity under control. How hard she tried to be there for all of them, how hard she tried to keep from crying when a situation surpassed her.

And it had also pained him how little did she know about the opposite sex.

Leaving aside the weirdos and perverts, that Great Khan lad had been doing a half-decent job by dedicating Boss a few lines of poetry. Really, amazing, not even Raul would have thought about that when he had been eighteen.

Boss’ response? Oh, that was very profound, I bet the Followers would love to add you to their cause.

_ Please_, Boss.

Then, that sweet Initiate boy at the Brotherhood bunker, the one who had lost a gun while attempting to impress a girl who hadn’t been impressed at all. He had told the Boss about his problem and she had returned him the gun after a not-so-pleasant episode with radscorpions where everybody had shot, run, and prayed.

She had impressed him so, from that point on forward, he had offered to assist her with the partitioned virus problem at the bunker’s databases… or whatever nonsense those Scribes needed.

And with the information gathering. And with asking for an audience with their Elder.

The boy had tried really hard… he still tried each time they came down the bunker.

Boss’ response each time? Oh, hey, Stanton, how’re you doing, pal? Have you already decided if you wanna be a Paladin or a Scribe?

_ Please_, Boss. Just… _ please_.

And now, there was the _chavo _and her, orbiting around each other like confused moons in search of a sun.

This one was a bit older than those two candid children. His posture tall and proud, his hands already used to be around a gun’s handle, his jaw tense, his voice an adult’s voice. His sad eyes pensive, making him look older beyond his years.

Not many joys seemed to have left mark on this one, as adult responsibilities had probably made him mature faster, sucking away the vitality a youngster like him should have sported.

He could really pass as an adult.

However, there were those tiny details that, with age, Raul had learned to identify as the last remnants of innocence when a boy is close to becoming a man.

This one was well-versed in elaborated discourses and fancy words, that kind of languid charm that would make a girl’s craziest fantasies fly to the moon.

But he didn’t have the faintest idea about how to approach a girl.

In fact, this one pertained to a very rare breed who attracted older women like bloatflies to mesquite honey without even have to move a finger, Raul bet. But girls would shy from his type, finding him too intimidating to dare further approach beyond timid verbal exchanges.

Boss clearly hadn’t picked him with silly fantasies in mind, but she was shy around him.

And he, in return, was totally clueless around her.

Raul thought them cute when they sat together at sunset, sipping on lukewarm water and eating cold bighorner pie as lighting a bonfire within Cazador’s territory wasn’t worth the risk of becoming a nest’s prey. Both sticking to the other like glue, pointy kneecaps protruding under military fatigues, dusty boots of very different sizes sinking slightly on dirt, pale faces softly illuminated in amber and green lights as they would converse silently through their Pip-Boys without exchanging a single look.

A mute private joke tipped on their screens and Boss’ freckles around her nose would make themselves more noticeable as her big eyes shone while his lips would allow a solitary fang to poke out.

Then Cassidy uttered a crass joke out of the blue to fill the silence, and the magic was gone.

Veronica and Lily were the ones taking the first watch that night, so the rest unrolled their respective bedrolls, unzipped them and started to zip them back together as one big common sleeping bag to preserve heat during the night.

Raul expected to sleep in a corner on his own as he was very aware of his own rotten body odor.

But he was surprised when the lad called for him, opening a gap on the conjoined sleeping bags so the ghoul could fit by his side.

Raul had met his open arm with fear that his skeletal frame would disgust him as his hand came to rest around the ghoul’s back and shoulders to keep him close for sharing heat.

But the lad had zipped up the bag without further comment and had made sure to keep Raul’s form as well as Rex’s on the other side close to him. And Raul had felt that, somehow, he liked the lad a little bit more than he liked him already.

Laying in quiet, the necrotic’s faulty sight perceived Arcade’s distant form rolling over a bit until Cassidy’s firm arm held him in place as she glued her back with Boone’s, whose arm rested protectively around Boss… who had extended her hand over Rex’s fur, first scratching the canine, then meeting her fingers with the lad’s.

Raul watched, mesmerized, how their hands crossed idly through fur until fingertips brushed. Then a tentative search, as if figuring out where spaces between fingers of the opposite hand laid.

And so, when they reached an agreement, fingers slide together, clasping around knuckles, thumbs caressing palms until they fit perfectly.

All of this done with both parts having their eyes closed.

Rex, halfway territory for such an intimate exchange, waggled his tail happily inside the giant sleeping bag.

And so, Raul watched the girl’s asleep face, then the lad’s. Both soft and impossibly young, relaxed and vulnerable in their contentment. Black and white hair tendrils like chess’ pawns sticking to closed lashes, dreaming the dreams of youth.

Those two, they didn’t know what they were playing at.

Maybe he, the no-adult, had an inkling, as _improbable _as it seemed… but Boss?

_ Please, Boss. _ – Raul thought, pleading amidst layers of dream state vigil – _ You just don’t hold hands with a boy and pretend he’s another girl you decide to befriend and share secrets and lipstick with. It never works that way. _

He would know, he had already lived that.

* * *

Arcade wasn’t having a great time.

Besides enduring the cold around the Spring Mountains as they had retraced their steps down the old California State Route 127 until they had reached a point where a natural path had led them further into the mountain forest, he was facing the fact that, perhaps, his presence within Six’s group was wanted no more.

Not that the others treated him differently as Cass and Raul engaged him in occasional conversation while Lily would help him wading through steep terrain.

Boone and _ Zorro _kept mostly to themselves, which wasn’t a novelty _at all_… but Six had consistently been keeping avoiding him, to the point she didn’t even spare a glance in his direction even when Veronica had attempted to act as a bridge between them on several occasions.

Arcade wasn’t, by any means, versed in psychology… but it didn’t take a genius to see that she was tense. Tense and _afraid_.

She had been depressed during almost their entire stay at Jacobstown since he had committed the big mistake of opening his mouth, no doubt nursing the psychological strain that those memories had brought upon her.

Arcade wasn’t mad at her at all, he even didn’t blame her for feeling that way around him. It wasn’t his sensitivities what he was worrying about… but rather how his presence affected her.

He held a great deal of affection towards Six, and the last thing Arcade wanted was to add to the list of villainous figures, Benny Gecko and the Mystery Man most prominently, that had managed to make her existence so utterly miserable.

Arcade had never experienced before what was like to be feared, and he reaffirmed in his belief that he would have made a very poor legionary should the Legion had captured him in his youth. What those sequestered tribals saw in gloating while looking at themselves reflected on the eyes of their frightened victims was beyond his comprehension as a human being. It simply attempted against every fiber of his being, making him feel sick and disgusted with himself.

Either the stories around legionaries were exaggerated products of the NCR anti-Legion campaign… or Caesar had made a good job at brainwashing thousands of men into believing that murder, enslaving, pillaging, raping_,_ and torturing people would somehow contribute to the making of a better future.

_ ‘Pax per Bellum’_. That was what the golden _aurei _coins read on their reverse. Arcade would know, as some of his patients at the Old Mormon Fort had ended there seeking medical aid with a handful of those in their pockets. Being legionary spies, turncoats, mercs, or NCR backstabbers didn’t matter as the hypocrisy of their actions had never escaped the Followers doctor.

_ Peace through war_. There wasn’t an Old World quote as dangerous, twisted and sad as that one.

It didn’t matter how they wanted to paint it, what results were expected out of it or what intentions attempted to excuse it.

In the end, war never changes.

With those somber thoughts over his head like a stormcloud, Arcade’s senses - naturally lesser and faultier than the average wastelander if his glasses were any indication – reacted perhaps a tad too slow when _ Zorro’s _usually placid, monochord voice elevated several decibels in volume for all to hear.

“CAZADORES!”

Arcade only then pointed his energy gun in front of him with trembling hands as he heard Boone shouting “Contact!” and a weight landed a few feet ahead of the blonde doctor with a heavy thud.

Then, chaos ensued.

Shooting the critter, still alive and creeping through the ground with its long clawed legs at a fast pace, several times until it turned into a bright greenish puddle of goo, Arcade dodged by inches the stinger of a full-grown adult that was promptly put to the ground by one of Cass’ bullets and was immediately finished off by Veronica’s pneumatic gauntlet.

They had managed to walk into a large nest, for the flying critters kept coming in waves, first the smaller young ones, easily put down by a single shot to the wings and then finished off on the ground either by Veronica, Lily or Rex… then the gigantic enraged adults.

One of those enraged adults went directly to Six and she managed to shoot it twice on the antennae before Boone’s muscled arm pulled her down to the ground and their bodies rolled aside to avoid the plummeting attack of its stinger.

With its tactile and olfactory receptors crippled, the large insect frenzied, unable to distinguish friend from foe, and attacked another adult, resulting in a furious buzzing between the insects as they grappled at each other with the hooks at the end of their legs while more of them joined in the madness.

Seizing the opportunity, everybody started to run in the opposite direction to the nest as Raul unpinned a hand grenade, counted down to three and threw it to the bunched insects.

The explosion blew off several wings and legs, effectively disabling most of the bulk… but two of them got seemly intact out of it and charged towards Raul who, being the oldest of them all, wasn’t as quick as the others while running.

Then Arcade watched, as if in _slo-mo_, how _ Zorro _charged on forward with Cass’ combat knife in hand, pulled aside Raul from the trajectory of one of the two vicious stingers that went to him and stabbed the insect right in the abdomen, effectively pinning it to the ground with the impulse.

He literally chopped down the unfortunate Cazador, depriving it of its stinger, legs and wings, in that order.

“JIMMY!” – Veronica’s exclamation was only drowned by the piercing scream Six released as the Power Fist connected to the other insect’s thorax… at the expense of embedding its sting into the Scribe’s right thigh.

Veronica howled as she fell to the ground, _ Zorro _stabbed and kicked the insect aside, grabbed her and hoisted the woman over his shoulders like a potato sack as he broke on a sprint with Lily covering for them while another pair of gigantic adults emerged from the nest.

“CASSIDY!” – the young man screamed, eyes the size of platters and more emotion on his inhumanly tense features than any of the present had ever seen as he sprinted towards the redhead, a nearing buzzing signaling he had another one just behind him and Veronica's flaccid form – “KILL IT! KILL IT!”

Cass’ resolve didn’t waver a millisecond as she aimed, fired_,_ and effectively crippled one of the critter’s wings, leaving it’s smashing to Lily.

“Retreat!” – Boone exclaimed, grabbing Six by the arm as he kept making signals to the rest of the group – “Wounded man! RETREAT!”

Six grabbed Rex by the metallic piece of his spine and coaxed the dog into not pursuing further engagement while _ Zorro’s _frantic pace reached them.

“Where?!” – he asked Six while still running – “WHERE?!”

“Ranger Station Foxtrot!” – she replied in-between panting as she struggled to keep with Boone’s pace – “Southeast, a mile and a half!”

They covered the distance in less than ten minutes cross-country. The Rangers almost shoot them as they saw their frantic approach.

Veronica was already spasming.

As soon as the young man left her over the bedroll inside Comm Officer Lenk’s tent, Arcade went in to observe her pupils and check on her body temperature. She was burning.

Totally independent of what Arcade might be doing, _ Zorro _didn’t waste time in tearing open Veronica’s right trouser leg.

“What are you doing?” – Arcade questioned, panicking a bit when he saw him unsheathing Cass’ combat knife again.

He had to admit the young man had a surgeon pulse when he carved the Cazador stinger’s remains out Veronica’s flesh as he promptly started to suck off the venom’s remnants and spit them aside.

Were not because he had ripped down the Scribe’s trouser robe, Arcade wouldn’t have seen the odd cutaneous reaction in time.

“Shit.” – the blonde doctor growled upon recognizing the discolored patches of inflammation – “Anaphylactic shock.” – raising his head to meet the concerned look on Lenk’s eyes, he almost demanded rather than asked – “Wouldn’t you happen to have a First Aid Kit here perchance?”

The blonde woman hesitated, but soon a second female voice filled the tent.

“Here.” - Ranger Kudlow said while extending the metallic case to him – “The Courier’s friends are our friends, right?” – she said, more rhetoric than actually asking Lenk, who caved and nodded silently.

As Cass positioned herself knelt down with Veronica’s head on her lap as she kept the other woman from thrashing, the rest observed the scene silently while Arcade rummaged through the available medical equipment. Raul and Six hugging each other tightly as the girl wept silently despite that the ghoul didn’t appear to be in better shape. Rex’s head over the girl’s lap looked a bit depressed while, beside them, Boone limited himself to watch the procedure with crossed arms and a steely expression.

But the instant the Followers doctor saw how _ Zorro _was, by any means, attempting to make Veronica drink a small gulp of antivenom, he found himself raising his voice way louder than it was average in him.

“Stop!” – he exclaimed – “She would choke on it!” – and then, he told the redhead woman still dealing with Veronica’s tremors – “Cass! Help me put her on lateral decubitus!” – however, upon watching the panicked reaction of the woman, who was clearly unfamiliar with medical jargon, he reformulated – “Help me put her on her _left side_! Quickly!”

After doing so, vomit started to pour out the Scribe’s lips.

“She cannot ingest anything now.” – Arcade explained while preparing a syringe with epinephrine, bless the Rangers and their meds – “Her respiratory tract may compromise further if we don’t treat the allergic reaction first.”

“Then inject her the antivenom!” – _ Zorro _ exclaimed, evidently unfazed by Arcade’s explanation – “Do you have any idea how quickly Cazador poison acts all over the body?!”

Arcade ignored him as he injected Veronica with the epinephrine… but soon he had to stand his ground with the rebellious youngster when he attempted to snatch the empty syringe out of his hands.

“Who’s the medic here?” – the Follower surprised himself with a calmed voice tone that commanded obedience, something he didn’t know he was capable of, as he grabbed the young man by the shoulders firmly – “You or me?”

He watched the conflict play in the young man’s eyes, one pupil slightly bigger than the other, teeth bared the likes of a wild coyote warning not to further test his boundaries, specs of blood smeared all over thin terse lips.

Somehow, Arcade was very conscious that this lad had been capable of bringing down an adult Cazador with just a _ knife _ and he was grabbing him by the shoulders, _ restraining _ him.

Veronica’s pained moaning brought a halt between them as _ Zorro _turned his head to look at her and Arcade released him.

“We cannot use a brewed, unsterilized medicine made in its entirety out of venomous animal parts in a case of allergic reaction this severe.” – Arcade went on explaining as he gave mute signals to Cass to put the patient’s feet up to help improve blood irrigation – “Chances are that she would end developing yet another allergic clinical chart like this one and won’t survive it at all.” – he knew how he sounded. He knew it and he hated it – “She needs to be kept hydrated and warm to ride off the poison’s effects while the epinephrine will help with her breathing and the inflammation.” – as he went on reciting his cold diagnose, he kept his hands busy cleaning and dressing the bloodied hole the enormous stinger had left on the woman’s right leg – “Saline will take care of the hydration part whilst Cass and I will keep her warm.” – preparing the intravenous bag of saline courtesy, again, of the Rangers’ meds; Arcade improvised a support for it out of one of the tent’s ropes so the saline could get downwards to the Scribe’s forearm – “Luckily for us, the natural Cazador antecessor’s bite, the Tarantula Hawk Wasp, used to be non-poisonous, so their venom is mostly a direct result of radiation exposure. That, we can treat it with a mixture of RadAway and a steady supply of Stimpack injections during the next hours until she sweats it off all the venom in her system. Other than that, there’s nothing more you, or anybody else, can do right now.” – then he turned briefly to the indignant young man, who was boring a hole into his skull with his eyes – “Bear in mind that, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have diagnosed her Anaphylaxis in time. You should be glad of that.” – he finished, taking his entire attention to his patient, who was already breathing more even.

Because, if looks could kill, Arcade would definitely be very dead from the very instant he had grabbed the other by the shoulders.

He already got that the young man didn’t like to be touched. But it was either that or putting Veronica’s life at unnecessary risk due to misplaced stubbornness.

And that was, for the umpteenth time, why Arcade preferred investigation over field medical exercise.

He heard _ Zorro’s _voice asking briskly for a cigarette to one of the Rangers and the blonde doctor actually felt relieved when the canvas tent entrance shifted and he, along with Lenk and Kudlow, abandoned the already crowded space.

Quite the temper, that one.

However, despite himself, Arcade felt a bit deflated as soon as Six's arms released Raul and she went after the group’s newest addition with Rex in tow without sparing a look.

Arcade felt incredibly alone after that.

* * *

Patting down brusquely his backpack, Vulpes produced a large matchbox and, after failing two consecutive times at striking a match, he finally managed to set one alight long enough to lit the cigarette’s end as he took a long drag of filth that burned his throat and sent him on a brief coughing fit.

His hands were shaking.

Besides being angry at the doctor, he was also angry at the girl.

Why did she have to do that? Why had she jumped between him and the damned mutated insect?

Had she been where she had to be, prepared to smash already shot down critters instead of _knocking them down by herself_, this wouldn’t have happened. He would have taken the sting instead of Raul, yes, but he had already survived several Cazador attacks to know that the cooked antivenom worked just fine on him, which he highly doubted could be said the same about the ancient ghoul.

And now, she could die just because she hadn’t stuck to the group’s dynamics.

Was it really _that difficult _to keep the ranged attacks to flying objectives while the fallen were dealt in close quarters?

The cohesion of this group was a disaster. A huge, _ dangerous _disaster that may bring more of these unsavory situations in the future should combat roles weren’t defined from now on forward.

None of them could afford this kind of _senseless sentimentality _out in the Wastes. Not with the laughable work the NCR was doing when it came to cleansing areas from vermin this size.

And they pretended to seize up not just the Dam, but also New Vegas should they were able to find a slip in Robert House’s agenda? They would end eventually impoverished due to the likely high percentage of attacks from wildlife onto caravans resulting in human casualties and loss of resources. Their campaign on the Mojave had been already costly during these last years since the First Battle for Hoover Dam.

“Didn’t know you smoke.”

Coughing a bit as he took yet another drag, Vulpes didn’t look at the owner of that voice, choosing to keep his sight on a non-particular point ahead of him.

“I don’t.” – he replied tersely, his mouth already tasting like shit – “I hate it.”

The first time he had tasted a cigar had been almost three years ago, during a break with two Gomorrah male prostitutes who had invited him over to share a smoke at the fountain of the Ultra-Luxe.

Since the rules didn’t explicitly forbid occasional smoking, he had accepted.

One had been fifteen and the other eighteen whereas he had been seventeen. Even if the situation had been a tad weird for his taste and he had been coughing half of the time, the strange companionship he had found with those two boys who hadn’t laughed at his evident inexperience with tobacco but instead had given him a conspiratorial smile - like they were doing some mischief at the very gates of the poshest casino in the entire Strip - had eased his worries and given him some degree of mental peace.

There had been next to none conversation. Just silent, young complicity between boys. The same kind of complicity he had been missing since he had been placed under Anguis’ command.

At first, he had thought that keeping company with Degenerates such as them would help him to blend in… but, as the weeks had been passing and his tongue had acquired a bit of taste for tobacco and nicotine, he had shared those ten minutes with them daily just because he had felt like it.

Just because their silent camaraderie was _pleasant_.

He had kept consistently sharing that daily break with them for three months or so until the youngest of them had disappeared and the oldest had only shown up once after that, dried trails of tears still present on his cheeks when Vulpes and he had shared that cigar in silence, knowing it would be the last one. He hadn’t asked _why _or _how_. It hadn’t felt right to.

Since then, he hadn’t touched a cigarette until today.

However, the experience had left some sort of a mark in him, for after that, the young Frumentarius had made a point of not accepting any manner of perdurable companionship coming from strangers, most pointedly any working staff from the casinos. It was best that way.

He had already forgotten the names of those two boys.

Just the same he would forget, in due time, the names of these sentimental fools he was accompanying to once the shadow of The Bull would engulf them all.

Again, it was best that way.

Warm irradiating by his left as another body stood by his side without touching him distracted Vulpes momentarily from his somber thoughts.

“I see.” – was all she, the Courier, commented about his earlier reply – “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” – he answered a bit too quickly for his liking, internally battling to keep his voice under control – “Yes, I am.”

“Okay.” – she murmured, sharing in his magnificent view of nothing in particular ahead of them. Rex obediently sat by her side – “You’re angry, aren’t you?”

Vulpes caught himself in time before answering with something downright _scathing_. He had to remind himself that she had nothing to prove to him, but he to her instead.

That included watching his tone. She wasn’t one of his men, but actually quite the opposite.

_ He _was, at the moment, one of _her _cohorts.

Which reminded him…

“This shouldn’t have happened at all.” – he said after taking another long drag.

“It wasn’t your faul…” – she began to say, but he cut her mid-sentence.

“No, it _wasn’t_.” – he agreed, remarking the last word – “She should have limited herself to fulfill her role finishing the critters, not engaging one of them armed with a _ Power Fist_.”

She eyed him shocked.

“She just wanted to protect you!” – she exclaimed – “You’re being unfair with her!”

“No, I am not.” – he differed as calmly as he could muster – “Should you forgot, my job is to assess the field I am given, calculate risks_,_ and act in due consequence. I calculated the risks and I assumed the likely outcome of getting stung knowing that I had the preparation and means to counter it.” – he explained dispassionately – “She, on the other hand, acted on an impulse without measuring consequences and here we are.” – then, he turned his face to her for the first time, his eyes steely – “This group, tactically speaking, is a disaster; you cannot have seven people and a dog acting as _reckless _and _unorganized _as they currently are. Without having a strict chain of command that defines everyone’s role in it, this unit is doomed to fall apart.”

The Courier’s face had gotten several tones of scarlet as he had kept speaking. Were it out of anger or actual _embarrassment_, Vulpes couldn’t really tell.

“This is NOT the stupid Army, damnit!” – she retorted, almost desperate to make him see things her way – “These people are my friends, not soldiers under my command!”

“Are _we _not?” – he replied back, purposefully adding himself onto the equation as she seemed so intent on keeping things on a personal level – “_Please_, Courier, don’t insult my intelligence by depicting this as a social club, because we both know that is only half the actual truth.” – she was doing _that _again, putting on _puppy eyes _to appeal to his sympathies. She needed to know, and better sooner than later, that such a _ childish _behavior was _beneath _her and will NOT earn any points on his book – “_Stop that _and let us be perfectly clear for once: you are, up to some extent, working for Robert House playing the ambassador part with as many important factions present on the Mojave as possible. Very well, I accept that the same the rest of the group does. Nonetheless, being the good _ follower _ that I _ currently _ am…” – he remarked – “… I do also expect _something _out of all this. Namely some _enlightening_, for starters.” – but before she could become evasive again, he pressed – “And that _ something _ cannot be achieved if we all end up _ dead _ for a mere lack of _ foresight _ on your part.”

She opened and closed her mouth several times like a gaping fish, clearly raking her brains to form a reply sufficiently convincing that would sway him from the current track this conversation was taking. But nothing came out her lips.

Unconsciously, she was acknowledging his reasoning.

That told him that, somehow, Vulpes had managed to find a crack he could easily exploit on his benefit… were he not as _pissed _as he was at this _scandalous _display of _incompetence_.

This time, the Commander in him spoke instead of the spy.

“People are _responsibilities_.” – he pointedly said, poking her shoulder with an index finger – “You formed this group, you take _ responsibility _ from each member’s _ behavior _ AND _ welfare_.” – he stated sternly – “Stop _eluding _your responsibilities and start acting like a _ leader_. Because that is _ exactly _ what these people, your insufferable _ sniper _ included, do need right now.”

She frowned, her puckered lips drawing a hard line. All apparent trace of vulnerability gone.

Good.

“Very well.” – to her credit, her voice didn’t sound any bit strained as she turned heel and, after clicking her tongue twice the same she had seen him doing with the mongrels at Nipton, she left him wearing her head proud and high with Rex whining behind her.

Filling his lungs with filth one last time before breaking into a stinging coughing fit, Vulpes threw the cigar butt amidst the pitiful bunch of empty scotch bottles that seemingly littered the encampment’s perimeter. A nearby crow squawked impertinently as if it were chiding him for contributing to add on the littering around.

Just his luck: trapped within an NCR camp full of drunken Rangers AND stuck with a bunch of Profligate _idiots _led by a stubborn seventeen-year-old.

_ Infuriating _girl.

* * *

Six had been sulking for the rest of the day.

Dividing her time between thanking properly the Rangers for their aid, checking on Vero _while _trying to avoid talking with Arcade AND roaming the encampment with Rex like a lost soul, Courier Six of the Mojave Express conjectured over and over the stern advise, disguised as an _insulting reprimand_, that her local legionary had decided to “gift” her with.

She was having a hard time coming to terms with what he had said and how she had felt about it.

Six was a person who downrightly _loathed _confrontations with people she cared to.

That was mainly why she was avoiding Arcade and why she was feeling like shit after that tense talk with _ Zorro_.

She… she cared about them. Even with the fear Arcade’s background had inspired in her, she still – somehow – recalled the old Arcade… the one who would come up with witty remarks about life in general and behave like a mother hen each time she would end doing something stupidly dangerous.

But she couldn’t, for the life of her, reconcile those fond memories with the notion that he was Enclave.

** _“Ah, alone at last.”_ **

The machine… that damned machine that had arranged things, first to have a lengthy talk with Laura and Burke… then with her.

** _“After exchanging gallantries with one of my former… let’s say, ‘trusted advisors’ and his snarling bodyguard, I have decided that a little chat between fellow Americans couldn’t hurt, could it? After all, you are what one could say… ‘ahead of your own time’.”_ **

She had been shocked. First upon discovering the true identity behind the John Henry Eden persona that had sent Autumn after Project Purity.

Laura's father's project. A work of a lifetime.

** _“Rest assured, unlike with those two, I have taken the liberty of including you in our program as it was intended right from the start. Your country needs you, child.”_ **

Then to know that her life, the service she had done for her country when she had been collaborating with the Engineers Corps had been nothing but a lie. Hers and her old unit lives had been first and foremost lent for researching. Then, should favorable conditions ensue, their next step would have been becoming the next generation of Enclave enforcers thorough the American Wasteland, acting as agents of law against any opposing factions, such as the renegade paramilitary Brotherhood of Steel.

They had a name for them: Sleepers.

And Vault 5 had not been the only one hosting brilliant minds from the pre-War.

America had failed them much earlier than when the nuclear Armageddon had occurred. The Enclave had, literally, bought them from the very Army that had sequestered them to bottle up them in that hellish Vault.

They had been tools all along.

** _“You and I have a chance to make our country a better place for all of us. I'd like you to make sure that chance isn't wasted.”_ **

Men, machines… men that were part machines, machines that think that were men… since she had enlisted, she had faced multiple masks from the same master: greed.

** _“Understand that I am placing a great deal of trust in you. Your simple presence here proves that.”_ **

She had spent hours, then days talking with the AI. Sheltered under the Enclave’s wing at Raven Rock, a pre-War military base designed at the beginning of the Cold War, barely sleeping and eating, she had squeezed the ZAX computer’s knowledge of American History to its limits, seeking answers, unfolding its plans, attempting to find the logic behind the AI’s actions and personality representing a faction that had perpetrated the most horrid crimes against America and now were self-proclaiming themselves as the new messiahs of the American Dream.

The John Henry Eden persona firmly believed this and it had attempted to enlist her to their Cause, privately assuring her that, out of the three main guests held at the facility, she was the only one the ZAX truly wanted by its side. Hacking the AI’s terminal to expose its code to further prove the circular logic beyond its reasoning, faulty and human, like the ones who had programmed it… had proved to be a task beyond her technical knowledge as the AI would keep changing passwords in real time. It had been a sadistic game of power the ZAX had proven to be quite proficient at.

So, she had resorted to negotiating with the machine.

But it seemingly had previously negotiated another deal with the other two guests.

At some point, Laura and Burke had been released from their cells and had found the way back to the ZAX’s chamber, leaving a trail of corpses behind.

They had found her sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes reddened and unblinking, conversing with the machine calmly.

The AI had stated its intentions: Laura had the purifier’s code, Burke had the means and little Birdie had _ “the blessing of all America” _ \- its own words. John Henry Eden only wanted, in exchange for their freedom, absolute cooperation regarding the distribution of the Modified FEV on the water and turning coats regarding Laura’s alliance with the Brotherhood of Steel.

After that, secretly, the AI expected the fourteen-year-old to betray her jailor and the infamous 101 Vault Dweller by trapping them inside the purifier’s irradiated chamber or something along those lines.

The AI had promised great rewards and, for a second, Six had really considered working for an evil machine in exchange for getting rid of Burke forever.

Along with countless of lives regarding the ghoul and supermutant population of DC.

For a second time, the opportunity had presented once more to be free from her jailor and his nefarious influence.

Burke had wanted the vial and the prospect of taking advantage of a reinstituted position within the Enclave, from where he had been banned once. So, he had agreed.

Laura had wanted to face Autumn once again to set scores… and she had been the only living soul in possession of the code, so she had agreed as well.

The only apparent condition had been for Six to be the vial’s carrier while a small number of Enclave soldiers would accompany them back to the Jefferson Memorial to put down Autumn and finish James Alden’s work.

Nobody had asked little Birdie’s opinion on the matter.

Nobody had cared.

_ “… The people here didn’t care. It was a town of _ whores_.” _

A soon as the sudden thought invaded her head, a blinding pain seized the left side of her skull, rendering her speechless as she grabbed her head with both hands, her senses taunting her as she thought she could smell the stench of smoke and charred flesh.

_ “… Truth is… the game was rigged from the start.” _

As if yet another bullet had just perforated her skull, she couldn’t see or hear the friendly voices and hands cushioning her from falling to the ground. She barely registered Rex’s soft fur between her digits as the only feel she could process was pain.

** _“Between man and monster, Birdie, only one of them is the true inheritor of the Wasteland… And time has proved me repeatedly that only the most gruesome abominations are the ones at the top of the chain food.”_ **

She never noticed how she had ended inside Lenk’s tent, Rex lying by her side, curled beside Veronica as both of their hands held each other.

And the Scribe’s eyes were open.

* * *

Vulpes had decided to play watch at the top of the mountainous gulch.

Besides not trusting one bit the Rangers, the encampment’s _incredibly faulty _layout made him nervous: not only they had decided to station their main tent near a radio mast – an evident giveaway of their situation for miles around – but also the mountainous gulch was a complete dead-end.

It had taken him, a trained young legionary, almost ten minutes to crawl his way upside. Under attack, none of these Rangers would stand a chance even with those _pitiful _barricades they had constructed around the place.

And every last of them were _women_. This encampment, given the isolated place it was positioned at, was a clear invitation to any Legion scout unit strong enough to have their merry way with their residents once they manage to subdue them. And nobody would be the wiser.

Soldiers, women, and isolated? This would likely become an _orgy _of blood, rape and torture before they were strung up crosses. Soldier women had no place even among Legion slaves.

The thought, Vulpes couldn’t begin to fathom why, made him want to vomit.

Even though they weren’t military _per se_, the Courier, Becky and Cassidy were the closest thing to a soldier woman next to an actual NCR female recruit.

The Courier he was sure she would receive special treatment should she collaborated with Caesar in the end… but the Master Frumentarius wasn’t so sure about the other two.

Cassidy had a mouth too big for her own good and a passion for whiskey any average legionary worth their salt would _love _to crush out of her should the opportunity would arise.

And Becky… well… it was best not to think about what they will do to her once they learned her preferences.

Vulpes wasn’t an idiot, he had seen the wishful glances she occasionally directed to Cassidy, and the other woman didn’t help at all considering she half-jokingly flirted with Becky quite brazenly to see the younger woman blush.

Quite true he had been the one to rat out many of his colleagues’ homosexual affairs in the Legion, first under the Serpent’s orders, then to let the rest know that he, quite literally, had them by the balls.

That position of power deciding over so many had felt incredibly good, even better if one of such transgressors ended being on his blacklist, for no shortage of Decani, Decurios and Centurions had felt like it had been a sport to bully him when he had been under Anguis’ boot.

But those rules, somehow, inside his head, would apply to any other Profligate lesbian… but Becky.

And he hated himself for professing those feelings.

He hated himself for even giving further thought to the question.

He despised the notion of seeing people instead of targets. He was trained to ignore personal attachment; he was trained to not care.

But these people… they were invading his vital and mental space. They were, slowly but surely, dragging him inside their circle.

It was easier when everybody treated him like a newcomer. A foreigner. Hell, it was easier when the _stupid _sniper decided to open his _stupid _mouth to _threaten _him.

“Hey…”

It was easier when _she _was pissed off at him.

“What are you doing up here?”

It was easier when _she _didn’t treat him like a friend.

“I brought dinner and stuff… though I suppose it has cooled by now. Took me my good fifteen minutes to climb up here.”

_ Nononononononononononononononononononononononononononono… _

A source of body heat came to sit by his right, then a plastic tupperware was put on his lap.

Vulpes willed his head, although incredibly rigidly, to move.

Foolish girl. She was such a nuisance. She had almost hit her forehead against a rock this afternoon, were he had not grabbed her when she had almost fallen.

The sniper had almost bitten both his arms off for touching her.

“The guys have told me you brought me to the tent when I… you know.” – she sounded awkward, infuriatingly shy – “So this is a thanks and an olive branch… for earlier, in case you were wondering.”

He made a point of ignoring her as he opened the small container to peruse its contents: grilled mantis.

“Yeah.” – she kept talking as if his silence didn’t bother her – “Apparently, those are pretty common around here and it has been some time since the last supply shipment, so…”

He didn’t comment on it until he took a bite.

“It tastes like…” – he found himself muttering.

“Scotch.” – she ended for him – “Cass’ idea. Apparently, said beverage is also common here.” – she added, almost humorously.

“So I have noticed.” – he confirmed, taking another bite. Giant mantis’ meat was usually gamey and tasteless; so the scotch flavor, at the very least, added certain… _ interesting _quality to the meal.

She must have seen his expression, for she kept talking.

“Hey, I’ve had it worse, believe me.” – she said – “When you’re out of luck with a hole in your stomach from three days going basically on dirty water, even roasted radroach sounds good. Or, if you happen to stumble on an abandoned camp, there’s a tiny chance you may find leftovers or a can of…”

“Pork N’ Beans.” – the two of them said it at the same time.

Looking at the other in surprise, they immediately mirrored each other’s disgusted grimace.

“Yeah…” – she nodded – “I know the feeling. And it’s worse when you have to eat it cold. It’s vomitive.”

“Downright awful.” – he nodded as well.

With that, their harmony apparently restored, he finished his meal and she produced two fresh mutfruits out of her backpack, which she had climbed up with to carry the food.

“Here.” – she said, handing him one – “To take off the scotch’s edge.”

They munched in silence while the night finished setting on.

“How’s Becky?” – Vulpes asked before he could catch himself. He shouldn’t ask those things. He shouldn’t care.

“She’s fine.” – she answered calmly – “She was awake when I did. She couldn’t speak due to her throat’s inflammation, but she has managed to purge most of the venom out of her system. Arcade says she should be up again in a couple days or so.”

Vulpes nodded, pensively.

“Do you intend to cast the medic off the group?” – he asked, giving her a pointed look – “It would be a mistake on your part to do so.”

Was he really doing this? Giving her _advice_?

Her head lowered and her shoulders visibly tensed.

“It’s not that I want to… but I also do.” – she confessed, hugging her legs and putting her chin on top of her knees – “I know that makes me a bad leader. But I didn’t start asking people to come with me so I could guide them or something.” – shivering, she held her legs tighter – “ED-E, I found him at Primm’s Mojave Express office and repaired him to help me get rid of the raiders that had besieged the city. He did all the work and kept following me. That’s really all.” – Vulpes didn’t comment on the male treatment she was giving to a machine and allowed her to continue – “Cass, I tried to convince her to come with me since she was a caravaneer and would have proved me useful until we reached Novac at least. She refused the first time, but joined in when I came up with McLafferty’s offer to buy her caravan business.” - why she was telling him - a spy - all of this, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to persuade her on the contrary – “Boone… I told him my sad story, helped him with a personal matter… and he offered up to accompany me since he thought I wouldn’t survive on my own with only ED-E as a backup.” – she smiled recalling this. She was evidently very fond of the NCR dog and Vulpes couldn’t help but wonder… if her affection went beyond mere friendship – “Vero, I approached her after a kid at the 188 told me she was sad and she could use a friend.” – she came to a sudden halt – “Which reminds me that we probably should stop at the 188 at some point to bring Clay with us now that House has lent us the Presidential Suite. He should be fine there, better than alone at the 188 anyway.”

“Who’s Clay?” – the Frumentarius asked, curious to know if yet another addition to the group was in store.

“The kid at the 188.” – she replied – “He’s… special. Like, _ really _ special, you know?”

“Do you plan to bring a child to your perilous pilgrimage through the Mojave Desert?” - he asked, incredulous and slightly taken aback for such a preposterous notion.

But she eyed him as if he had become mad.

“What? No!” – she exclaimed, just as scandalized – “I just want to escort him to the Lucky 38 so he can have a real roof over his head, a proper bed, food and protection! He’s special, but he cannot fire a gun and I am not giving him one, he’s only nine.”

He then gave her an approving nod, satisfied to know that they were on the same page there. If he would be ordered to bring Lupus along on a mission, he would do everything in his power to discredit such a notion. Either that or taking him to one of the Legion safehouses and leaving him with one of their other siblings to guard him. The Mojave Desert was anything but child-friendly.

Watching her squeeze her legs even tighter whilst attempting to control her slightly shaking shoulders, Vulpes rolled his eyes. Just like her: complete lack of foresight at the rapidly changing temperature conditions once the night came over the Mojave.

Picking up the sleeping bag he had brought with him to sit over, he unzipped it and used it as a blanket putting it over his shoulders, making an opening with his right arm for her to join in.

She slide in so easily, so trustingly that the Frumentarius was briefly tempted to shake his head. Too easy, this girl’s misplaced trust made things too easy. She should learn to be warier of whom she shared space with.

But she kept talking after her hip was touching his and her left arm and his right arm respectively had come around each other inside the improvised blanket to maintain heat.

“Raul, we came across him after climbing up Black Mountain. He was held prisoner by a Nightkin named Tabitha. She wanted him to repair her robot companion. I volunteered to help him and, after some time tinkering with its inner program, we managed to set it up, so Tabitha was happy and let Raul go.” – quite the adventure, that one. He might interrogate the ghoul further about it – “Rex was already ill when I caught sight of him beside The King at the _School of Impersonation_. I asked what was wrong, and the man promptly sent me to deal with Julie Farkas at the Old Mormon Fort, who in turn redirected me to Jacobstown to treat Rex’s problem, so I told The King where the wind blew. In turn, he lent me Rexie’s custody until I was able to cure him… but I’m not planning to return him any time soon.” – she laughed, seemingly content, recalling how she had picked up her companions – “Lily joined us at Jacobstown after telling her about dealing with the local Nightstalkers’ problem. She simply never quit after that.”

Her voice was growing sleepy as she kept filling him with quite the interesting pieces of information about the members of her group, describing them and their little adventures together.

She also spoke of the medic as if he were another person who was no longer there anymore.

She was evidently at two minds regarding his presence with them and she didn’t want to make a decision. Just the same she didn’t want to make a decision about the Fiends, the NCR, and the very Legion.

So, there was still a chance to sway her to their side.

Somehow, throughout the conversation, her head had come to rest over his right shoulder and her smaller frame had nestled against his. The comfortable warmth inside the sleeping bag was kinda compelling, Vulpes had to admit.

“The medic will not wait much longer.” – he warned her as he squeezed her closer. He felt comfortable having her this close. She smelled nice, mutfruit sweetness permeated her breath as she talked and her lips had a lingering gleaming film of juice that made them look redder. It was incredibly distracting – “No matter our little detour here, he will leave as soon as we would pass through NCR safe territory if you won’t say otherwise.”

She produced a sleepy groan.

“I know…” – she muttered, half-yawning – “I know… But I don’t wanna think about it now…”

“Doing nothing is a dangerous occupation, Courier.” – he gently chided her.

“Stop calling me that, you dolt…” – she protested softly, nuzzling a bit his shoulder – “… My job… not my name…”

Vulpes almost smiled. The old game again, it seemed.

“And your name is…?” – he asked, not really expecting an answer at all given that she had already closed her eyes.

But she kept talking.

“… Don’t have a name to give…” – she muttered – “… Gotta surname, though…”

Vulpes’ heart rate notably increased. This was fresh news.

“And that surname is…?” – he gently prodded, fearing she would get asleep now leaving him with the intrigue.

Every second she took the time to respond felt like years.

“… Sullivan…”

After that, she was fast asleep.

Vulpes remained a while without doing anything in particular, mulling over possibilities.

He shifted their positions so he could hold her more comfortably and shielded her closed eyes from the light of his Pip-Boy.

He hadn’t managed to obtain a single moment completely alone until now to test something.

** _01:22 AM Monday, March 06, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Are you able to read her heart rate now? _

The chat remained silent.

He tried a different approach.

** _01:25 AM Monday, March 06, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ Are you the same Yes Man I talked with at Benny Gecko’s workshop in The Tops? _

The chat remained silent.

He wasn’t giving up just yet.

** _01:28 AM Monday, March 06, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ You seemed more forthcoming then than now. Why the silent treatment? _

The answer wasn’t immediate.

** _01:30 AM Monday, March 06, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Awww, I’m sorry, it's not like I don’t want to talk with you! But she has written some lines in my code that prevents me from divulging information to any other person than her and the members on my inner memory’s whitelist. Sorry! T_T _

So, she had been intelligent enough to tamper with the AI’s behavior. Interesting.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t done yet.

** _01:31 AM Monday, March 06, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ By “she” I assume you mean Sullivan. _

He had never attempted to manipulate an AI. They say there’s a first time for everything.

** _01:32 AM Monday, March 06, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Oh, she has already divulged to you that information? My code recognizes that as a protocol to work with the information of your knowledge and “keep along” with it as we converse. _

So, she had told him the truth. Her surname was Sullivan.

Good.

** _01:33 AM Monday, March 06, 2282_ **

** _Fox:_ ** _ How much does the restrictions in your code allow you to tell me? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Very little :( _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ I see you are also keen on using emotes thorough a conversation. _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Oh, yes! They are very useful! They help me convey feelings to what I want to communicate! :D _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ Are you happy right now, then? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ The correct word would be “excited”. You are one of the few people I have ever talked with since my creation! And you questioned me a lot the first time we met. I enjoyed that very much ^^ _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ A shame you cannot do the same now. _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Yep. Sorry :( _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ That whitelist you spoke about before… what I would have to do to be added to it? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Why, getting Sulli’s approval, of course! :D _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ She is the one who adds people in it, then. _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Yup. _ _  
_ ** _Fox:_ ** _ You sound a bit different than when we first met. Why is that? _ _  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D:_ ** _ Oh, you have noticed? :D I’ve been building a database regarding ways of conversing and Sulli has been helping me to improve! She’s so nice to me! ^^ _

So, the girl had been coddling the AI – so to speak. And she had gone through the trouble of disabling its overly helpful nature to keep her secrets safe.

Vulpes doubted very much that House would be aware of Yes Man’s existence.

That told him that the Courier… _ Sullivan_, had in mind betraying the mysterious owner of New Vegas at some point.

Or maybe she simply regarded the AI as a pet, like she did with the floating mechanical orb, and didn’t want to erase it.

He already knew her enough to be certain that both possibilities were equally valid in her head.

But he shouldn’t underestimate her. A wise fox is a fox that knows when to cuddle and when to bite back.

For now, it was cuddling time it seemed.

Eyeing the asleep girl between his arms, he wondered if he could take a peek at her own device. After all, she had confided him that she usually took notes of whatever tasks she needed to do.

It was true that she had loaded him several maps with updated locations he had found of great interest to the Legion… but those promised notes about “private information” of many Mojave’s inhabitants had, somehow, never appeared within his device’s inner memory, no matter how exhaustingly he had searched for them.

He could easily forgive her for that tiny transgression as he had obtained since then much in return… but he still wanted to take a peek.

However, as soon as he attempted to raise her left forearm to his line of sight, a loud squawk by his left almost made him jump.

He hadn’t noticed the corvid perched near him, almost too close for a wild creature.

However, by turning his sight to his left, Vulpes noticed the red luminous dot pointing beside him. It started to sweep along his form until it reached the Frumentarius’ forehead.

Picking slowly his binoculars, knowing that such a display was meant for him to notice, Vulpes adjusted his sight to the dark and saw the NCR sniper perched to another rocky ledge on the mountainous gulch.

The other man, knowing he was being watched, lowered a bit his telescopic lens and raised two fingers to his eyes, first pointing at his glasses, then to Vulpes.

The message was clear: _ I’m watching you. _

Lowering the binoculars, the Master Frumentarius contained an indignant huff. The _cur _was cunning, he had to give him that.

However, a malicious thought crossed Vulpes’ mind as he lowered his lips to the asleep girl’s forehead and planted a soft, measured kiss over it.

Perfectly innocent, yet a clear message for the other: _ I’m not going to do anything improper… but I still can get too close if I so choose. _

He hoped the _damned _sniper would be _seething _with impotence.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N/A: I'm probably putting up together in the near future a tracklist for those who are curious about the songs I am posting as chapter titles. This one, in particular, is the title of way too many existing songs, and the one I am referring to is from the Swiss metal band "Killer".  
Other than that... dense chapter again? Maybe? The real action will be coming soon, but first I have to set up things and I am a fanatic of details (probably more than it's really healthy), so here's the new chapter, group-centered and with various perspectives.  
Six and Vulpes are warming up to each other but the doubts are still there. Slow Burn. Yeah.  
I wrote quite a few things very intentionally today, such as Vulpes' smoking pals being young male Gomorrah prostitutes. Why? Because I've read a lot of fics that glamourize Vulpes' role as a spy on The Strip when the reality is more along the lines of doing a very distasteful job where your bedding partners are, besides information targets, most likely people the spy in question wouldn't bed under normal circumstances. And him being male doesn't mean that he cannot be disgusted by it.  
I want to emphasize this: being male and Legion DOESN'T automatically make the character willing to engage any available (willing or not) female on his sight radius.  
This being said, I wanted to thank the new Kudos and reviews. I'm so happy you're enjoying this story of mine! T_T  
Cheers! :D  
PD: anyone there experiencing problems when it comes to uploading a chapter? It's driving me CRAZY!


	15. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to rape, references to torture, political controversy, ideological controversy and Legion bigotry towards homosexuality. You know the drill: it hurts/offends you, tread at your own risk :D

* * *

Arcade was feeling more and more strained as hours passed checking on Veronica’s progress through the poisoning.

Not that he hadn’t any faith left on his medical training, because this ‘accident’ had been sort of his daily bread back at the Old Mormon Fort, when junkies and locals had been the least of his problems each time caravans dropped by with a guard or two at the brink of a comma after an unfortunate encounter with the desert’s wildlife.

After leaving Navarro for good in search of a life of his own, Arcade had traveled a great deal with the Followers back on his day: zigzagging radiation near The Glow, facing reject at Gecko, passing by Junktown, minding his tongue at The Boneyard, helping the Water Merchants at The Hub, facing the wonders and the history of Arroyo, saving doomed people at the Golgotha graveyard – the first crude impression he had gotten on how basic crucifixions worked, treating inbreeding-derived afflictions at Modoc, pushing his luck against the Hubologists’ doctrines in San Francisco, fighting against rats propagating diseases like gunpowder in Klamath… Hell, even he had thought he had seen it all when he had been stationed in New Reno, dealing with misery and the Van Graffs, Wrights and Bishops’ victims; namely prostitutes, chem addicts, debtors and fallen-from-grace pornstars while attempting to not becoming yet another victim of the Families as well there.

But then, Julie Farkas had asked for volunteers to go to the Mojave Desert.

Tom and Ignacio had been enthusiastic at the prospect, April had looked hopeful, Usanagi had simply shrugged and signed up whereas Emily had jumped on the bandwagon and asked when they were departing.

And Thomas Hildern had rubbed his hands with delusions of grandeur.

That had been almost nine years ago.

And then, problems had started escalating as soon as they had set foot outside the NCR Mojave Outpost.

Whereas the New California Republic territory had hosted all manner of horrid creatures due to the multiple accounts of pre-War nuclear warheads that had fallen on its land, thus giving birth to all manners of wildlife mutations, Arcade had only really feared the almost-extinct Wanamingos, which were subterranean; and Floaters and Centaurs, which tended to hunt in packs together near highly irradiated zones, thus easily avoidable.

Upon reaching the Old Mormon Fort in the Freeside - always under Robert House’s scrutiny, of course - Arcade had already grown to fear threats far more tangible, whose appearances were frighteningly more usual than the critters in California: Cazadores, Nightstalkers, Lakelurks, Giant Radscorpions, Evolved Centaurs… and Deathclaws, Deathclaws everywhere.

However, by 2277, a creature far worse than all of the above together had reared its ugly head from the far East: Caesar’s Legion.

Upon beginning hostilities with the strange pseudo-tribal faction, an inner joke amidst NCR soldiers had been to refer them as “those cosplaying Roman dudes with skirts and funny gibberish”. They had thought them to be no more threatening than a bunch of rabid coyotes. They had thought them to be no better than raiders, and the NCR Government had sported deaf ears when the Followers had attempted to pass onto the population information about the leader of those tribals without compromising further their faction.

Edward Sallow. Former Follower of the Apocalypse. A truly brilliant mind who had graduated at the Angel's Boneyard University in New California to be a fully anthropologist and linguist at only twenty years of age.

Sent on a mission with another Follower, a physician by the name of Bill Calhoun, both of them were expected to meet with a Mormon missionary, Joshua Graham, at the East of the Grand Canyon to teach the tribes there about medicine and midwifery while studying their evolution during the last 200 years since the bombs fell.

A year later, Bill Calhoun had been the only one coming back from that mission to a very confused group of Followers, speaking in the name of this Caesar, bearing a warning message that the newly-christened dictator should not be interfered with. Joshua Graham had remained by his side, becoming his first Commander.

Through the next thirty years, many news from the East had been consistently arriving in the form of a growing threat the NCR Council had kept rejecting and minimizing in favor of an expansion campaign that had, eventually, led them to the Mojave Desert.

And then, they had bumped into Robert House, his Families and his securitrons.

A peace treaty after, and half the NCR population who couldn’t stomach the practices at New Reno by the local reigning mafias had taken a pilgrimage to New Vegas, dilapidating caps over the same vices like a radioactive downpour.

Whereas House got richer by the day at their expense, the Republic was led to a state of impoverishment so great due to their previous war with the Brotherhood of Steel and the costly Mojave Campaign that, by now, food prices had doubled while taxes had almost multiplied by four. The Mojave Campaign was highly unpopular and Kimball’s presidency was severely threatened now that Elections were near.

Arcade knew all of the above and still, he had stayed true for the Followers’ cause whilst many of his colleagues had fled, resigned or became Hildern’s lackeys until the NCR’s Office of Science and Industry had been created. With him at the head of the Mojave branch.

In the short span of a decade, Arcade had seen how a flourishing young nation had become a pantomime, a sad reflection of its pre-War counterpart: chained to indebt, slave to private CEOs like House, hands full with senseless war, brains fill with shitty propaganda, bureaucracy even to ask for goddamn toilet paper, a politics-centered Government, filled with corruption and crimes like of that back on Bitter Springs that nobody wanted to talk about.

It was as if the Humankind had learned NOTHING since that fateful October 23rd, almost two-hundred and five years later.

Lifting the canvas entrance of the Ranger tent slightly, Arcade’s eyes washed over the encampment until they landed upon the small disquiet figure of Six, a burlap sack over her tiny shoulders while she methodically cleansed the area from litter – most prominently, the numerous empty scotch crystal bottles the Rangers had left scattered after themselves.

Watching her doing that simple community service warmed his heart. Truly, a daughter of her time if the few Vault Dwellers Arcade had met were any measuring to go by. He often wondered how those who had been, since their tender childhood, presented with the views of a world that no longer existed could stand it.

How she had been able to cope and adapt to an environment so hostile and so different since she was… so brusquely awakened from her long sleep?

How long had she been sleeping? What those terrible experiments at Vault 5 did on her psyche to warrant that unyielding mixture of fear and hatred for the Enclave?

_“Henry, I want to know everything, so don’t spare me the details, as inconsequential or gruesome as they may be. I want to know the truth.”_

Henry had been… incredibly hesitant, to say the least.

_“You don’t know what are you asking for. Your father, Mark, didn’t know what he was asking for and, when he finally got the answers he sought, he never remained the same man after that.”_

He had been _afraid_. Arcade had never seen someone as remote and misanthropic as Henry being so afraid of something before.

_“Despite of what you all may think, I am not my father. I will never be, and I am not so sure I’ll even want to. What I know is that sweet girl outside making a giant snowman matters to me, and I deserve to know the truth about the extent of her damage.”_

Not that he blamed him.

_“A ‘sweet’ girl that almost blew your brains off just for speaking out of turn. Wouldn’t be surprised if one night you and I go to sleep and never awake to see a new sunrise.”_

Not anymore.

_“For Christ’s sake, Henry! She’s not a goddamned assassin, damnit!”_

Not since he had watched those tapes.

_“Are you certain about that?”_

Henry had allowed him access to the terminal of his laboratory, then he had unearthed a dusty case full of holotapes he had left near the computer, saying that he didn’t want to be present. That he couldn’t stomach that again. That those tapes had haunted him for more years than he could count and that he only kept them so those records would serve as reminders of what men were capable of. He had said that he didn’t want to add on the list of crimes perpetrated by the Enclave by leaving those very reminders to rot for History to forget.

Once he had been alone, Arcade’s fingers had ghosted over the tapes, noticing that a handful of them had tags with faded handwritten dates.

And that group had dates that were even before October 2077.

He had decided to play them chronologically.

He had to stop halfway the first one.

A lesser man would have pretended that what he had seen didn’t affect him and would have put on a stoic face while he endured the ride.

But Arcade was no lesser man, nor he was a desensitized NCR General to deny that he had cried. A lot.

** _“See that fucking chink face, soldier? Yes, that’s what you are going to face on the battlefield. What would you do if I tell you that these motherfuckers are not only attempting to take your country from you, but that if they got the opportunity, they will blow your dadda’s head, take your momma and your little sister so they can torture and rape them, cut both their legs and later feed them to them mutually, preferably if they watch one another doing it?”_ **

The answer had been pulling the trigger. And not one, but several times until the gun’s cartridge had been empty.

The one speaking had been a five-star U.S.A. officer wearing proudly his regalia as if flaunting his status. The victim had been a trembling old man of Chinese ancestry with silent tears cascading down his eyes as he had been so terrified that he hadn’t been able to speak.

The one pulling the trigger had been a Caucasic ten-year-old with more hatred in his eyes than Arcade had ever seen in a child.

But the worst hadn’t been the footage _per se_, but the ending advertisement as the camera had focused upon the boy’s face as he smiled a beatific smile, almost cherubic with supple pink cheeks, soft blue eyes going as easily from dead-cold to encouraging-warm, and short golden curls atop his head, dressed in a mini cammo uniform with the stars and stripes flag sewn on his right shoulder.

The advertisement read: **“Uncle Sam needs YOU TOO. Fight shoulder to shoulder along with your older brothers and sisters against the Commies! ENLIST TODAY!”**

Arcade had been at the brink of vomit when he had read the small letter at the bottom of the advertisement that said something along the lines of “educative purposes” while it cited names of sponsors behind the campaign.

Many surnames, he recognized to be common among many Enclave families he had met when he was a child. Descendants of those very sponsors.

_Eckhart, Richardson, Bird, Sanders, Pickard, Dornan, Bracks, Smith, Brandice, Murray, Curling, Schreber, Meyers, Harper, Swafford, Santiago, Ragnarsdottir, Grey, Whitley, Williams, Black, Tuckman, Richter, Scott, Grant, Holt, Burke, Autumn… Johnson, Moreno, Whitman, Kreger…_ and _Gannon._

Arcade then had understood Henry’s decision to never give out his own surname once he had abandoned Navarro. He was ashamed of it.

It wasn’t easy to live with yourself knowing your great-great-grandfather had co-funded such a monstrosity.

However, as the rest of the holotapes had kept playing on the computer, vomit had become a reality when he had gotten to the research diary entries from Vaults 65, 74, 75, 100, 113, 121… and 5.

* * *

**::: Welcome to ROBCO Industries [TM] Termlink :::**

**Thank you for choosing Vault-Tec!**

**[Press Release]** •

**[Enrollment Policy]**

**[Special Admission Protocols]**

**[Admission Records]**

* * *

Almost every last of these Vaults’ terminal entries compilations started more or less in the same fashion. An apparent innocuous menu, everything very formal and carefully planned.

All tidily wrapped up in a nice envelope to sell a clean image to the public through the Press, lying to thousands of parents that thought their children would be safe in the hands of Vault-Tec.

* * *

**::: Press Release :::**

**For immediate Release:**

**Vault-Tec to Subsidize Enrollment for Malden Families**

**Washington DC - In response to growing national concern for the safety of our children in the event of a nuclear attack, Vault-Tec officials have cooperated with local government in Malden, Massachusetts to provide subsidized enrollment fees for any families wishing to sign up for residency in Vault 75. The newly-opened Vault is attached directly to Malden's Elementary School, ensuring a swift evacuation should an attack come during class time.**

**"Safeguarding the future has always been our priority.", said a Vault-Tec Spokesperson, "The opening of Vault 75 gives us all extra peace of mind, knowing that the children of Malden will be safe, even if the worst comes to pass."**

* * *

All lies. Vault 75 had been a fine example of what had happened to the children of unaware civilians that had signed for – presumably - their kids’ future, to ensure their survival.

Arcade had uncoiled the complicated roundabout hidden file system, unearthing bloodcurdling truths in the guise of instructions.

* * *

**::: Annual Turnover Protocol :::**

**Beginning one year after initial containment, children over the age of 18 must be removed from the general population. This will be done annually, on a date specified by the Overseer and Chief Scientist.**

**It is recommended that this "graduation" be treated as an important tradition inside Vault 75. Appropriate ceremonies should be conceived of and performed by Overseer staff, with outgoing subjects being removed one-by-one from the main living area.**

**Once separated from the general; population, subjects with aggregate ratings of EXCELLENT and SUPERIOR are to be escorted to the genomics laboratory for processing. Subjects with EXCELLENT and SUPERIOR intellect ratings (but not aggregate) will be offered positions as Overseer of Research staff, per discretion of the Overseer and Chief Scientist.**

**All other subjects should be disposed of as outlined in the confidential operations packet.**

* * *

“Disposed”, as one would speak of waste, trash.

For these glorified ‘scientists’, the children hadn’t even been human beings.

The more Arcade had deepened into the records, the more disgusted he had become.

The Enclave had known all of this. After several generations, all of the original founders and sponsors gone, the experiments had kept going… and the Enclave had known all along.

And they had done NOTHING.

The purpose of Vault 75 had been basically the refinement of human genetics based on the subjects’ physical traits. Those who showed genetic promise were to be preserved for genome harvesting and reintegration.

By means of half-cooked truths, they had misled the growing Vault population under the impression that they were meant to be superheroes for an agonizing America. They were led to believe that they were training to become the saviors of Humankind.

The real objective had aimed to make superhumans, the ideal survivor for an irradiated Wasteland that didn’t forgive weakness.

The perfect soldier.

This had gone on for several generations until the offspring product of these “genome harvestings”, though physically superb, on the mental side had developed several cases of mania, schizophrenia and paranoia with violent episodes mostly product of not being able to endure high levels of stress during the torture sessions they regularly underwent under the guise of training.

Eventually, and despite the many tranquilizers they were administered through food supply, the violent residents had revolted against the authority of the Overseer and then, the databases had stopped updating and the records had come to a halt.

Ironically, Arcade had found this to be an unsettling way of poetic justice and had thought that even Friedrich Nietzsche himself would have turned in his grave had he been able to predict this outcome. So much for his infallible _Übermensch_.

All of this, done with civilian children. Vault 5 had taken it a step further.

Getting back to the real world, Arcade muffled down a snicker when Boone approached Six and, while taking the trash bag from her, he instructed her to _“Go fetch that fool on the hill so everybody can start discussing strategy roles, girlie.”_

Six had a good laugh at the sniper’s indirect allusion to one of her favorite songs that she had played to them quite a few times when they had been inside the Lucky 38, waiting for this elusive new addition to their group that persisted on making himself as difficult as possible.

Arcade supposed it was the age. While Six herself sometimes wouldn’t make any sense, acting childish at the least ideal situations, her chat buddy was all sphinx countenance and serious business… until you dropped him into a situation he wasn’t in full control to, and he would short-circuit, acting so incredibly random that not even Veronica, who was the most humane of them all, had yet managed to decipher how his train of thought really worked.

And speaking of Veronica…

Arcade almost jumped when he felt tickling fingers prying down both sides of his ribcage.

Upon turning around, he watched with a slight frown on how his patient had gotten up her sleeping bag and was eyeing him with an impish smile all over her cracked lips.

“Very funny.” – he deadpanned, secretly relieved that she seemed miles ahead better than yesterday. Though petite, the Scribe was sturdier than she looked – “How are you feeling?” – he asked, his hand automatically reaching for her forehead to check her temperature.

“Hungry.” – she rasped, her voice still not so recovered from the whole ordeal.

“That’s a good sign, then.” – Arcade acquiesced once he was sure her motor functions were fully operative after a quick checking – “Luckily for you, we are having a sort of council meeting over lunch in an hour or so.”

“Regarding?” – she asked.

“Strategy.” – he replied – “Apparently, Boone’s giving us a briefing about group’s tactics and that sort of stuff.” – however, upon watching her face going from questioning to crystal clear shame, he quickly added – “Hey.” – his hands found her slumping shoulders – “What happened the other day wasn’t your or anybody’s fault, alright?” – he assured her, meaning every word. No matter what the lad might say, Veronica’s heart was in the right place – “Six asked him to. She’s worried for you, nothing more.”

Nonetheless, Veronica’s eyes lowered.

“I know that I’ve fucked up…” – she muttered – “Wouldn’t want to be a hindrance…”

But her eyes got up when Arcade’s hands squeezed, giving her a very meaningful look.

“Veronica.” – he said, his tone dead serious, his green eyes behind glasses intent – “If there’s anyone in this group who less deserves the title of ‘being a hindrance’, that is definitely you.”

And he really meant it. Every damn single word.

* * *

_“See that disgrace of a Profligate face, recruit? Yes, that’s what you are going to face on the battlefield. What would you do if I tell you that these sorry excuses of human beings are not only attempting to rebel against the will of our Lord Caesar, but that if they got the opportunity, they will take you into one of their interrogation chambers and fuck with your head until either they break you or convince you to act against the Son of Mars’ interests, your very family’s interests, so you can rat out your brothers and live in dishonor and disloyalty?”_

_The old discourse any Centurion worth their salt would give to the rookies. A discourse he had dared not to question even once since he had turned out fifteen and he had tasted blood for a second time since that hellish _Dimidio_._

_His answer the first time had been chopping the unfortunate’s head off his shoulders. Without question._

** _“Do tell me, boy… what did you have learned about our troops’ darkest secrets today?”_ **

_But then, with a sore spine, he had been placed between the poisonous fangs of a Serpent… and all the teachings that had been taking root since he was eleven had gone to the gutter._

_Don’t rat out your brothers to the Profligates… but rat them out instead to the Master Frumentarius._

_Held in the highest esteem Legion teachings regarding honor, virtue and truth… but mock honor, discard virtue and twist truth whenever you don a disguise._

_Don’t break your oaths to the gods… but disregard their authority when it comes to blend in with an alien culture that pays respects to no gods._

_Regard women as mothers and wives, vessels strong enough to bear children but unfit for the war… but court war allegiances with a girl if Caesar commands you so._

_Whenever the opportunity presents, kiss said girl and fuck her senseless if Caesar deems it an effective way to get into said girl’s good graces… but, privately, don’t entertain any notions regarding personal attachment._

_Because, ultimately, your indisputable loyalty belongs only to Caesar… as long as he holds his end of the bargain regarding your little brother._

“Hi!”

_Anguis had destroyed him in so many ways…_

“We need you downstairs to start discussing those group dynamics you told me about. I thought it was better to tell you in person than through the chat.”

_First tribal, then legionary… now, a faithless agent wading bloodied waters._

“Hey?”

_How much of the small boy that loved his family remained? How much of the loyal legionary stuck? How far the rat was willing to go up the sewer pipe to seize its prize?_

“You napping?”

_How easy would be to simply reach out and… break her neck?_

Opening his eyes, Vulpes lift his chin from its comfortable place between his collarbones and cracked his vertebrae until the dull neckache faded.

“Ewwwww… I hate it when you do that stuff.”

The more reason to keep doing it.

Directing an impassive look to the girl eyeing him expectantly, Vulpes raised an inquisitive brow.

“I am _not_ educating your friends regarding military tactics.” – he warned her, his blue stare incisive – “Until I elucidate if you are or not a threat to the Legion, my counsel in warfare will remain neutral.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Aaaaalrighty, Rommel. Whatever you say.” – incidentally, he already knew who Rommel was and that made his eyes turn into thin slits of suspicion – “Just kidding! Man, did you wake up pissy today.” – she quickly added, raising her hands in a surrender gesture – “Boone’s gonna be the one defining individual roles and assigning positions should a threat arise, so don’t worry. We will we operating under the Republic Army’s standards as a small unit, not as a _contubernium_.”

The slight joke didn’t amuse him.

“Hardly.” – he replied drily – “Even if we are eight people, we still be lacking a _Decanus,_ and there would be the matter of designing an _optio_.”

“_Optio,_ that is entirely _optional_, given that the Centurions are the ones choosing those.” – she replied, unfazed by his grave countenance and her own bad pun – “Wanna test my knowledge on the original Roman military structure? Let’s see: _Frumentarii_, originally collectors of wheat – _frumentum_ \- who also acted as the secret service of the Roman Empire in the 2nd and 3rd centuries.” – clicking her tongue, she continued – “Taking this as a guide for what period your _American Legion_ is based on, I’d say each _centuria_ is divided into nine _contubernia_, thus making it with ninety legionaries each, nine _Decani_ – one of them being the Centurion’s assistant of sorts if not an already designated _optio_ – and a _Vexillarius_, I assume.” – she shrugged – “One _Legio_ is ten cohorts or ten _centurias_ plus… a hundred twenty cavalry escorts? Maybe? Plus, if the _Legatus_ in charge has _tribuni_ by his side…”

Vulpes raised his brows, impressed. If the NCR managed to enlist this girl to their cause, they will be getting a very accurate schematic of how the Legion’s military structure worked.

_Frighteningly_ accurate.

He should really either enlist her or break her neck, the second being the safest option despite what Caesar might wish.

** _“Remember, boy: the sacred duty of our Order is to serve Caesar in all ways, even if it angers him, even if he cannot understand a necessity, even if he cannot bear to look into the truth.” *_ **

Despite the acidic venom dripping constantly from his fangs, the Serpent had been always wiser beyond his station. Too wise.

And too proud, since he had been unable to see the backstabbing little monster he had kept feeding on heresy and treachery until it had grown too strong for him to stand a chance against.

_‘American Legion’_… this girl spoke the likes of a heretic too.

_His people, his loyalties. His rank, his duty. His mission, his responsibility._

_His failure, his fall._

A doe-eyed heretic with a most warm toothy smile and the softest hands ever as his fingers interlaced with hers once they had descended upon the encampment again.

_The _Imperator_, the voice of wisdom and reason._

The sniper gave him a disapproving frown when he caught sight of them, but didn’t comment.

_The Courier Sullivan… the voice of omens and knowledge._

“Jimmy!”

_Winds of change blowing through The Bull’s banners, singing a melody of war and torches. Birds of prey feasting on the remains of a battlefield._

His fingers slide from hers the instant breath was knocked off his lungs when a pair of strong arms encircled his protruding ribcage in an unexpected embrace.

His frame tensed inhumanly in response.

However, upon lowering his sight down to his neck, he found Becky’s brown eyes staring at him with a dearness he wasn’t sure how to respond to.

He almost panicked when she lifted him several inches from the ground, noticing for the first time just how really strong the young woman was.

“Aw.” – she said when she put him back on solid ground, noticing just how red his ears had gotten despite his rigid neutral expression – “I’ve missed so much that cute poker-face of yours, Jimmy, seriously.” – she teased, still not getting any sort of emotional response from him, blissfully ignorant of the tense air around them as the rest observed the scene, dreading possible violent outcomes – “And what’s up with these sweaty armpits?” – she smiled sweetly, her raspy tone mischievous – “Is up time for a change of clothes, huh?”

Vulpes regarded her unamused, his bodily tension slowly relaxing.

“Perhaps that _peculiar_ mind of yours is _unable_ to comprehend the _environmental_ attributes of a _desert_, does it now, Becky, dear?” – he retorted drily.

But she laughed a raspy laugh, happy to be able to joke with him, exultant for having crossed the barrier so bluntly and, instead of refusal, she was receiving a sort of tacit consent through dry sarcasm.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Jimmy.” – she said out of a sudden, hugging him more tightly as she recalled the dangerous episode they had starred in two days ago – “Honest.”

A few seconds passed and she was almost driven to the brink of tears when one of his long hands patted her awkwardly a few times in the shoulder. Around them, the ambient visibly relaxed.

Veronica almost pitied having to let him go, but she relished in the precious exchange she had gotten out of someone so unaccustomed to human contact.

Sometimes, being the patient had its perks.

* * *

They abandoned Ranger Station Foxtrot the next day, Kudlow already sending Six to Camp Forlorn Hope on the banks of the Colorado River, South of Hoover Dam, with a report of certain importance for Sergeant Reyes.

Vulpes knew very well where Forlorn Hope was stationed, as its precarious setting coupled with the eradication of Searchlight and the conquer of Nelson will already have left Major Polatli and his men alone and compromised with them being almost the last remaining NCR bastion securing the shores of the Colorado. He hadn’t chosen Dead Sea idly when he had given him control over the mission, knowing very well Caesar would want to have him garrisoned at Nelson. Dead Sea had quite a reputation for being bloodthirsty… if highly disciplined, and it wouldn’t be any surprise if one day he will turn out to be promoted to Centurion. He was already an _Optio ad spem ordinis,_ the_ Primus Decanus_ of his _centuria,_ and Caesar held special regard for him.

Having been raised Legion through and through since he was a baby, Dead Sea was blindly loyal to his Lord, having known nothing better and blood being the only currency he dealt on. Just as many others.

A zealot had his uses, after all.

It would do Vulpes some good to recognize the terrain first before making a decision regarding who should be send to deal with Major Polatli, thus securing the Southern shore of the Colorado banks, leaving Camp Golf vulnerable by the time Lanius would get back from his campaign on the East. Caesar’s orders for him to present his victories before the _Imperator_ had been already sent.

Once he got his backpack over his shoulder, Vulpes expanded the Map interface of his Pip-Boy, the landmark of Ranger Station Foxtrot already there for future reference.

He hesitated, giving a last look to the encampment, his index digit hanging above the tactile screen, his mouth set on a hard line.

He thought about consequences, about useless bloodshed. He thought about the countless women who had perished under The Bull’s hooves.

He thought about his mother, a perfectly healthy, educated woman in her early thirties when their tribe had been conquered.

_“The men in red arrived at our ranch when I had just turned out eighteen.”_ – she explained to him once after he had asked her why they were the only ones in the entire tribe speaking this English language nobody else did – _“I was fortunate, for I had been sent to the communal Vault to trade fertilizer for a portion of their labs’ last batch of apples and carrots. When I returned, I could already see the smoke rising up the sky. The first red banner that I spotted was clue enough to know that I wouldn’t survive if I but dared to tempt my fortune further, so I retraced my steps and asked for shelter to the Vault’s inhabitants.” _

If he now knew something about Vaults and pre-War technologies, strictly forbidden and avoided for the majority of the local tribes of Utah, had been thanks to his mother.

She had been so different from the other women of the tribe…

_“Did they accept you, mom?”_ – he had asked, still too young to understand all the horrible implications of her tale. For him, it had been just that, a tale, a little adventure his mother had to undergo before becoming one with _La Jauría_.

Although he had to concede… that the pale distant woman with the liver-colored hair and sad blue eyes had never been really part of their tribe. The Wise Women had dubbed her _‘La Vulpeja Forastera’_, which translated roughly into ‘The Outsider Vixen’. They said she had come to them in the dark, the night a mantle for her many scars, her frame skeletal, bearing the eyes of a wild predator.

Her feral appearance had been a good omen, a sign that she belonged among them, for the desert had tested her strength and she had emerged victorious.

_“For a time, yes.”_ – she had responded to his innocent question – _“I lived among them a whole year, working in the hydroponics lab as an assistant.” _– at this, she had smiled, a rare occurrence for her – _“I met someone there. Someone special.”_

He had been, again, too small to grasp on the tone in which she had narrated that particular event. Not that she had given him a name… or a gender at all.

For all he knew, his mother perfectly might have been in love with another woman. She had been a Profligate, influenced by the licentious culture of the pre-War.

_“What happened then?”_ – had been his next question – _“Why did you leave?”_

Again, that tired shadow over her features had made her look older beyond her years. And wiser. Frighteningly so.

She had been a Profligate, yes… but she had known a better life than other tribal women. She had been a vessel of knowledge. And he had loved her dearly.

_“The men in red happened, darling.”_

She had never elaborated on what had happened inside that Vault, only that the men in red had gotten in there by an alternative entrance, the very same she had used to escape when the opportunity had arisen aided by a Stealth Boy, something he had never seen before until Anguis, heretic to the core, had produced a box full of them in the chill of his tent to teach his pupil how to use forbidden technology under Caesar’s very nose.

_“I roamed the desert for months, traveling to the West, always to the West.”_ – she had explained to him, her voice a mere whisper inside that tent house she barely left – _“The tribe’s hunters found me eating the raw carcass of a gecko at the verge of rotting, for I was no hunter, I had no wood to start a fire and my lighter had but given up a few nights ago.” _– he hadn’t known what a lighter was, but her tale had had him completely enraptured – _“Some of them spoke Spanglish and I had some vague notions about how Spanish worked, so they brought me to the encampment after telling them that I was hungry. The Wise Women studied me and determined that I was apt to join. Because I was already older than many wives, they told me that I had to choose a husband.”_

_“And you chose _padre_?” **(1)**_

_“No, darling. It worked the other way around.”_

She hadn’t loved him, but she had been a survivor, so she had accepted his protection. Whereas all the people around her had perished, she had lived to tell.

She had spent all her adult life running away from the men in red. From the Legion he now pertained to.

It was fortunate that the birth of Lupus had killed her before she could suffer the same fate that she had been consistently avoiding all those years. Or so the Priestesses had told him.

He hadn’t thought about her in a while, and the memories were equally as fond as unwelcome. They served no purpose, just as his hesitation.

Shutting down the amber glow of the device, resisting useless, undignifying mercy for his enemies, feelings that were completely uncalled for someone of his status; Vulpes departed with the rest Southeast. A chorus of croaking from the sky bidding their farewell.

He never looked back.

* * *

The journey across Fiend territory around the old Sunset Sarsaparilla Headquarters went surprisingly _less painful_ than Vulpes might have expected once everybody donned Great Khans’ disguise in the form of very revealing motorists’ outfits.

Revealing enough that he had to put an extra effort into not redirecting his prying eyes back to the group females’ naked legs. Most prominently, Sullivan’s fit legs that kept taunting him as she was marching, quite literally, in front of him.

Curse the Great Khans’ outfits, but the shorts the women wore were incredibly distracting.

The girl said that the outfits _‘had some serious Mad Max vibes, but nothing like how the raiders went by’_ and almost everyone had treated her comment just like she had said nothing until Raul and Lily had actually laughed, clearly getting the strange humorous side of the situation. The supermutant had said that she preferred _‘Fury Road’_ with the pretty wives and their stories whereas Raul declared himself ‘on the classic side’ saying that the best Mad Max movie was _‘Thunderdome’_.

After that, Veronica had started pestering Sullivan, asking if she, perchance, had those movies stored on her Pip-Boy’s memory, and Vulpes couldn’t help but notice just how many untold stories pre-War audiovisual archives had in store. No wonder those decrepit drive-ins had been so popular, for they peppered the landscape as reminders of what once had been a common attraction available for the basic civilian, or so Sullivan had told him that night once he had asked her through the Pip-Boy chat before going to sleep.

The American people had been living a life of leisure prior to the nuclear Armageddon that had destroyed everything, and the idea felt incredibly alien for the Master Frumentarius.

As he had been the only one without a proper Great Khan disguise, they had improvised something out of a spare pair of jeans from the Followers doctor and scavenged pieces of raider light armor that Sullivan insisted on having at hand for patching purposes. The entire outfit - minus the jeans - had consisted of sturdy leather and it had been surprisingly clean, another “particularity” of Sullivan’s fastidiousness with hygiene. Not that any of the present company complained about it despite that, in the desert, no matter how freshly showered you are, you are bound to stink in the next half an hour of sweat, halitosis and even crotch rot if you weren’t careful enough.

Cassidy was a very fine example of having been used to other human beings’ general dirtiness and disgusting unhygienic habits for so long that she had replied rather flippantly to the sniper’s commands about keeping distance between companions to get a sense of tactical formation that she didn’t care if he had _‘ripped one’_.

Since he had been officially assigned the role of their ‘tactical commander’, the sniper seemed more focused, feeling at home in his own element, taking his duty with seriousness and confidence. Vulpes had noticed that the man, though still passive-aggressively hostile towards him, since he had assigned him a tactical role and Vulpes was performing without question and to the letter, he seemed less inclined to utter empty threats at him each time the young man got too close to their teenage leader - and her _very_ distracting legs.

Under the sniper’s guidance, Vulpes had learned how NCR leapfrogging and basic drill worked such as the Contact drill, Immediate Ambush drill and Counter Ambush drill.

Though not one for many words, the man had expressed himself in a very clean vocabulary when he had explained to them the basics during their briefing at Foxtrot.

During that time, not even Cassidy had dared to mock his overly-formal instruction once, not after the Cazador incident.

Vulpes could tell that this new setup sat immensely better with the sniper now that the group had acquired some sense of discipline. Even he himself was starting to appreciate the familiar rigidness of marching, having missed dearly the orderly Legion formations.

However, a mile or so from their night stop, their march had taken on a violent halt when a patrolling group of Fiends with Driver Nephi at the head had surrounded them.

“What’s this?” – the Fiend leader had asked, eyeing Sullivan with utter disgust as soon as he had recognized her – “Told you to get fucked, kid! Jesus fucking Christ…”

“We’re just passin’ by.” – she replied, matching her tone with Nephi’s, casual and not overly polite. Rex by her side baring fangs silently to the drug addicts in front of her – “Gettin’ a big raidin’ party at the _El Rey Motel_. Maybe we’ll pay a visit to the Scorpions at the _Monte Carlo Suites_ later since you bunch’o pussies haven’t kicked the shit out ‘em outta there.”

Vulpes maintained his face neutral, cringing internally not just because of her atrocious butchering of the English tongue while faking a loosen up accent, but even more when she called one of the leaders of the Fiends _‘pussy’_ right in his face.

Did the girl have a suicidal wish or what?

“Only pussy I see here is yours.” – Nephi retorted, his eyes bloody, his dirty teeth bloodier, signaling him as a regular Jet consumer – “Bet that motherfucker Cook-Cook wouldn’t mind stretching it up a little bit, huh?”

That comment made almost everyone in the group tense as one big communal coiled spring, the sniper the very definition of tense restraint as Vulpes could hear his knuckles cracking inside his balled-up fists and his teeth gnashing viciously behind a tight-lipped snarl.

However, to her credit, Sullivan remained unfazed.

“Sorry, not into that daddy crap.” – she replied petulantly – “I prefer my johnnies younger, cleaner and _saner_. Maybe you’ll do a fine replacement. Figures you bein’ more like his type, Nephi.”

The girl had been playing a _very_ dangerous game. This group, no matter Nephi’s ill fame with a _stupid_ golf club when they had Lily and her _badass_ Vertibird blade, would be a child’s play to vaporize… bad news would come later, with Motor-Runner and his cronies storming upon _El Rey Motel_ by night as soon as they got sight of Nephi’s corpse. The Fiends could be mediocre fighters and very slow when it came to putting to use their neurons to do something more complicated than getting high… but they were fast at reacting when one of them is found inexplicably slain and a group of “Great Khans” happens to be nesting up near the area. And there were _hundreds_ of them.

And their patrols were _constant_. Even if they aborted the plan of spending the night at the abandoned motel, they would end surrounded by Violet’s dogs and Cook-Cook’s gang in less than twenty minutes before they could get out of their territory.

Nephi knew all of the above, thus the unabashed cocky attitude when he cackled at her bravado.

“Cook-Cook doesn’t have a _type_, kid.” – he replied, an angulous smile full of very bloodied, very crooked teeth set upon his dirty face – “You got a hole, there goes Cook-Cook’s dick. Being it your cunt, your ass or your skull basin is not relevant.”

“Are we goin’ keep talkin’ in circles ‘bout Cook-Cook’s junk, or do we have your blessin’ to pass through your turf as we damn fuckin’ please, Nephi?” – she countered, Vulpes already detecting micro-expressions getting out of control on her facial muscles, signaling she was getting nervous.

Driver Nephi twisted his features into an ugly grimace, but he caved with a slight nod.

“Tell your Papa Khan not to get his fat ass too comfortable in sending his goons around here as if he owned the place.” – he warned – “Might start charging a toll next time if there isn’t a bag full of stuff for delivering.”

“Then you will get no more junk to fry your brainies off.” – she retorted, mordacious – “Ingredients for cookin’ your shit ain’t growin’ in Red Canyon any time soon, you know. But I’ll give Papa Khan your regards, nonetheless. See what Motor-Runner has to say ‘bout that.”

“Careful with those games you play, kid.” – the junkie leader said as he and his group allowed them to pass – “Politics have no place in the Wasteland when there’s a tribe larger than yours ready to feed your men their own entrails and your womenfolk our cocks if you don’t honor our trade agreement.”

Once they were out of earshot, the whole group breathed relief.

“Shit, I hate those motherfuckers.” – Cassidy, ever the voice for the majority of the unvoiced thoughts of the group, spoke up – “Can’t we just fill their Vault’s perimeter with mines and traps while feeding them mini-nukes from a distance? Please?”

“Wait, do we _actually_ have such an assortment of weaponry at our disposition?” – was Vulpes’ immediate question, eyeing the redhead woman with incredulity.

But she threw her face back, laughing her ass off.

“Hell, yeah.” – she confirmed – “Believe it or not, Tribal Boy, you just happened to join a few weeks ago the Unlimited Scavenging Resources Club of the entire Mojave. Here, you comb any lootable area until it gets more polished than your spear on a lucky day.” – there, again: sexual humor. Vulpes really wished she wouldn’t keep doing that at the minimum opportunity – “Condensers, electronic waste, work tools, nails, fission batteries, motorcycle gas tanks, lawn mower blades, motherfucking leaf blowers… hell, even a rusty, old broken gun is fine for spare parts as long as we have Raul’s magical hands here to transform trash into weapons and ammo.” – she added, pointing at the ghoul behind her with her thumb.

Raul just shrugged when the Master Frumentarius looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time.

“_No es lo que más me gusta hacer._” _**(2)**_ – he explained – “But it pays off in the long run. Too many surprise Demented Deathclaws and Random Raiders out there to keep going just on tiny pistols and rifles.”

**“Big bad children are best dealt with toys like this, Jimmy.”** – Lily added, fumbling a bit into her monstrous backpack until she produced a canyon-like frame of sorts… or more like a catapult, if one studied it up close; too big to be handled single-handed – **“You see, munchkin?”**

Vulpes stared at the odd weapon, trying to decipher what kind of ammunition it would use.

“What is that?” – he asked – “How does one use such an unmanageable weapon?”

Suddenly, he became the center of very unwanted attention when everyone stared at him.

“You’re kidding, right?” – Becky asked cautiously, studying his blank expression – “Jimmy… don’t tell me you had never seen a Fat Man until today.”

“A what?” – he had never heard the term. And it looked like a handmade botched job of a weapon some raider had managed to put up together rather than a standardized, reliable heavy gun.

“_Chavo._” – Raul intervened – “Do you know what a bazooka is? Or even a portable missile launcher?”

“Does that thing launch rockets or missiles too? Isn’t the tube a tad too precarious for that?”

“Not… exactly, _chavo_. You’ll see…”

And then, as the Courier, the dog and the sniper led the march in utter silence, the presence of the man slowly nearing hers until she was basking in his shadow, ever the fervent protector, as they waded amidst rows of black birds of prey staring in quiet wait at the passing group; the informative course Vulpes_ had totally asked for_ had begun.

The grave silence in which the Followers doctor shielded himself, however, was another entirely different thing.

* * *

** _03:03 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ Wanna hear a joke, Sulli? :D_

Near five hours, and she hadn’t managed to get any sleep at all.

** _03:05 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Shoot._

So, of course, Yes Man had gone to the rescue.

** _03:06 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ How many ghouls does it take to change a light bulb? ^^_

She was spending her much-needed rest time chatting with an AI.

** _03:08 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ How many?  
_ ** _:D YES MAN D_****_: _ ** _None. They hang around a Glowing One XD  
_ ** _Courier VI: _ ** _XD_

An AI that, sometimes, replicated Mandy’s rather _peculiar_ brand of humor so _precisely_ that she wanted to cry.

** _03:11 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ Did you like it? Was it funny?_

She often thought about her bestie… how it would have been should she had gone through cryostasis too.

** _03:12 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI: _ ** _It was very funny, Yes Man. You’re getting better at this._

Would they have stayed together, running away from Burke’s Talon mercs, just the two of them against the post-Apocalyptical Commonwealth, friends forever and everything?

Maybe they would have become a famous duo, just like that old sweet man at Tenpenny Tower and his late ghoul servant. Or Tabitha and Rhonda. Or Cass’ dad and that dude many people called ‘The Chosen One’.

** _03:13 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

**_:D YES MAN D_****_:_**_ Awww, thank you! _♥

Or would Mandy had awakened just as crazed as the rest of her old unit, forcing her to proceed in the same manner she had done with the rest?

** _03:16 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI: _ ** _Yes Man, I’m gonna get some fresh air, you mind?_

Burke had lied with the numbers he had given to Tenpenny, as well as he had lied about their true purpose.

** _03:17 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ Not at all! Though I’m happy you’re asking me if I do!_

Twenty-nine had been the number of teens and pre-teens he and his mercs had managed to reanimate successfully.

** _03:18 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ And why is that?_

But they, without fully understanding how the Post-Cryonic Syndrome worked in long-term exposed organisms, had botched up many previous reanimations, subsequently killing _dozens_ of them before programming the cryo-chambers adequately.

** _03:19 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ Because… that means you have consideration for me. To me, it’s the equivalent of being treated as a human._

Before Burke, there had been… a _hundred_ of them.

** _03:22 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Do you wish to be treated as a human, Yes Man?_

All carefully selected. Nine units of nine individuals: eight soldiers and a captain.

Pretty much like nine _contubernia_.

** _03:23 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ Not that I know what I’m talking about, but… should I would be able to wish for something, that would be to be treated as an equal, not as a servant as is my coding intent._

The Number One being their Commander. Their _Centurion_.

** _03:24 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI: _ ** _Do you want someone to love you, Yes Man? To worry and care about you? To be your friend?_

A _centuria_ of soldiers. She had been designated Number Nine on their rating scores, mostly due to her high IQ rather than her combat prowess, taking the role of the eighth captain.

Big Bro had been a captain as well.

** _03:25 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ … Yes… Even if I don’t really know what it is, I want it so much, Sulli. Just to know._

A captain surrounded by soldiers as none of the other captains, nor their Commander, had survived.

_Her people, her loyalties. Her rank, her duty. Her mission, her responsibility._

_Her failure, her fall._

** _03:26 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ To know what, Yes Man?_

It hadn’t been supposed to end like this. Out of a hundred people for her to end becoming the sole survivor.

Keeping her sanity had cost her too much.

** _03:26 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _:D YES MAN D_****_:_ ** _ To know what it's like to be a Free Man instead of a Yes Man._

She shouldn’t be alive at all.

** _03:28 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282_ **

** _Courier VI:_ ** _ Me too, Yes Man. Me too._

Yes Man had never been the one closing their chat interactions, but now, the AI figured offline. The first autonomous action she had witnessed for it to take.

She was glad the exchange had ended, though. Talking with Yes Man stirred a lot of conflictive feelings she had been systematically repressing since Burke had announced his ownership over her life.

After all these years, it felt so odd to wander the Wastes without a master holding her leash…

Getting up from her sleeping bag as she had allowed Vero and Cass to have the bed for once, she took Boone’s bomber jacket and sneaked out the apartment like a thief, closing the door carefully after her. Rex barely acknowledging her as he remained napping on the floor.

The only two usable rooms with doors that hadn’t been blocked by rubble had been filled with chem addicts that, once they had gotten sight of the heavily armed group seeking shelter for the night, hadn’t had to think it twice before abandoning the building, not after they had seen Lily.

And, speaking of Lily…

Grabbing the metallic railing of the two-story motel with both hands while inclining her body forwards until she was almost upside down to check the lower level, Six caught sight of the Nightkin snoring placidly on her four zipped-up sleeping bags under the shelter of the upper level as the tiny rooms’ entrances had proved insufficiently big for her to fit in.

Before she could produce a small smile, a sudden click by her right took her by surprise and both hands slide on forwards the railing.

A brief sense of disorientation and then panic filled her once gravity started to kick in as her head collected an inhuman amount of blood as she precipitated herself head-down to the ground.

But before her legs turned upside 180 degrees, a pair of steady hands grabbed her by the waist of her short jeans, pulling her whole weight from the balustrade brusquely.

She landed painfully on her butt. However, she didn’t get any time to produce a groan when those very hands that had saved her from a breakneck fall fell flat at each side of her sitting form while short nuclear white waves tickled her nose as the face of a very pissed off _Zorro_ almost bumped into hers.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” – he hissed, his voice a mere whisper in the still of the night – “Are you crazy?!”

She had him so close she could almost feel the tip of his nose touching hers, warm irradiating from him like a heater.

And heat did she felt when her entire face burned under his annoyed blue stare.

“… Owch?” – she breathed stupidly, repressing the sudden impulse to coil one of his locks around her finger. He had such pretty hair.

Her statement did nothing but make his frown deeper.

“Amusing, _truly_.” – he said drily, his flat tone laced with sarcasm – “Care to explain what are you doing out here in the open?”

She was getting increasingly flustered due to his nearness, the heat reaching her ears, her shoulders and breastbone. With any luck, the lack of light would hide from him the fact that she was blushing like a tomato.

“… Cannot sleep…” – she said once she was sure her voice would be steady enough.

If possible, he frowned even more but retired from her proximity – to her much relief – and stood up, extending his hand to her.

Fearing that the blush might have even reached the tips of her fingers, she gently refused his help and got up clumsily, her entire body trembling and her butt pulsating painfully.

While he went mutely to close the door of the apartment where he had been sleeping along with the other guys, she reclined against the cracked wall, rubbing her hurting backside. He joined her after a while.

Neither of them spoke, both resting against the wall, him arm-crossed while looking at nothing in particular, and she, at that moment, finding her own bare toes the most interesting thing in the world.

“Cannot sleep too?” – she asked shyly after a while, her sight not raising from the floor.

He made a noncommittal grunt.

They remained silent longer than she dared to acknowledge.

“Two days to reach Camp Forlorn Hope.” – he announced out of the blue, his soft whisper almost making her jump – “Have you already reached a decision regarding the Followers doctor?”

Her toes curled awkwardly against the cold floor.

“Nope.” – she answered weakly, flinching so slightly when he turned his head to her, his eyes bearing an incredulous, scolding look.

“Do you have any idea how valuable a medic’s aid and expertise are around these parts?” – he asked briskly – “Your inaction may prove the group’s undoing if you are incapable of dealing with internal issues like this.” – his piercing gaze hardened – “As a soldier, you should know it already.”

That was a low blow and she was sure he was very aware of that fact.

“I do.” – she replied weakly.

“Of course you do.” – he retorted, still scolding, but his voice a tad softer – “What I still do not understand is this nonsensical stubbornness of yours when it comes to emotional conflict.”

“You are stubborn too; in case you hadn’t noticed.” – she huffed childishly.

He rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Are we going to turn this into a competition regarding who’s the most obstinate here, Sullivan?”

“Try me.”

“I’d rather not, thank you very much.”

“Ha! So you admit defeat.”

“I’ve never implied anything of the sort.”

“Laaame.”

“I am not playing this game with you, so cease this foolishness.”

“Dummy.”

“Likewise.”

They had left it there, having slowly slide through the wall one towards the other while their banter had gone on as if there were magnets in their pockets nudging their bodies to seek closeness.

Somehow, eventually, they had ended sitting on the floor holding knees, sharing companionable silence as they had watched the sun rise again over the Mojave.

The supermutant below them was mutely sharing in their contentment, happy to know for the boy she had assigned the role of her missing grandson to have the cute little girl as a friend. Them kids needed one.

She couldn’t say the same for the poor young sad military man that had been spying on them from the other side of the door, his fears blinding him, acting on his name, speaking words of hatred with his voice, rendering him incapable of healing.

She would know a thing or two about healing after the Master was killed so many years ago and her role as a spy for an army full of pain had finally met its end. If she hadn’t healed, she wouldn’t still carry the recording of her grandkids with her, reminding her that she, once, had been Lillian Marie Bowen of Vault 17 instead of Leo, assassin under the Unity’s unmerciful claw.

* * *

Arcade didn’t quite know how he had let himself be talked into this.

“Ahh... look who it is. I didn't expect to see you here.”

But Veronica could be pretty persuasive when she wanted to.

“And you brought delightful company as well! I’m always a sucker for a pretty face, and two are _most welcome_.”

Didn’t just got a little bit hotter in here? ‘Cause Arcade was positively _perspiring_.

He couldn’t say the same about _Zorro Salvaje_, whose indignant cerulean glare was digging angry holes into Alex Richards’ skull as the physician kept talking, switching flirty looks between the two fair-haired present male company in his medical tent as if they were edible.

Six didn’t know where to put her eyes whereas Raul coughed awkwardly as Veronica and Cass were repressing hysterical giggling. Boone being Boone limited himself to stay by their teenage leader’s side with Rex sitting tight by his left. And Lily had to be left waiting outside.

“So, what can I do for you, my fine dear?” – Richards added, his eyes and smile entirely directed to Arcade now despite his initial salutation having been – theoretically - intended for the Courier Six.

The aforementioned girl scratched her scalp nervously.

“Errr… Major Polatli says you need some assistance with your patients… again?” – she ventured, her eyes searching over the doctor’s shoulder, attempting to discern the state in which the medical tent was since every single bed looked occupied.

Her words diverted Richards’ attention back to her, smiling at the offer. Though his smile seemed a bit strained, tired.

“Considering I'm the only person with medical experience in the _entire_ camp, I’m _always_ in need of assistance.” – he confirmed, a tired, humorless laugh following almost immediately – “If I was a mortician, business would be booming. As a doctor, business is hard. Too many injuries that I can't do anything about. The Legion has been hitting us pretty hard lately since Searchlight fell. Lots of casualties from many attacked posts, not many people I can save.”

Six shifted from one foot to the other nervously, almost jumping when Boone’s voice filled the silence.

“Wait, Searchlight has fallen?” – he asked briskly, as if doing a double-check, not sure if he had heard it right – “When did that happen?”

Richards studied the granite man in front of him, taking into account his red beret.

“First Recon, huh?” – he asked rather passively – “By now, Hsu at McCarran and Chief Hanlon at Camp Golf should have their desks full with reports on the last attacks. Three weeks ago, Searchlight was filled by radiation when some Legion unit in disguise blew the whole fire station whereas one of those captains of theirs, a _Decanus_ by the name of Dead Sea, is now garrisoned at Nelson.” – he explained gravelly – “The bastards left intentional witnesses. Many traumatized civilians that we don’t really know where to put or send to, that escaped slavery. And soldiers… some intact… some not so, I’m afraid.”

Boone’s knuckles cracked under the pressure of his tight-balled fists while Arcade simply cringed. This was bad news; the Legion was advancing fairly quickly considering that the taking of Cottonwood Cove and the Nipton massacre had had a whole year of spacing between one another. Whoever was behind the recent attacks, it wasn’t a common field Centurion, but a master tactician. A dangerous one.

“Anyway.” – the doctor spoke again, his tone adopting a less grim tint – “Getting back on track to your generous offer, I could use a _skillful hand_ for medical support, of course.” – he added, directing to Arcade the umpteenth _smoldering_ stare, making the Follower adjust his glasses nervously – “May I have the assist of your handsome doctor there once more?”

Six bit her lower lip, unsure if she should answer for a person she was currently not talking to.

Arcade understood.

“Of course.” – he answered for her, adjusting his glasses in a way that he hoped seemed professional enough. Despite the overly-flirting character of Dr. Richards and his undeniable attraction towards the man, Arcade wanted to be clear about the nature of his presence there – “But let cooler minds prevail, shall we? After all, when it comes to the ill, _non nobis solum nati sumus_.” _**(A)**_

In return, Richards’ smile didn’t waver an inch.

“Indeed.” – he acquiesced – “However, since we are also dealing with Cicero, I ought to add that you should_ vivere memento_ a little bit from time to time as well.” _**(B)**_

That had been equally as unexpected as unbelievable hot that Arcade was very conscious of the cool of the metallic rim of his glasses against the sudden heat of his skin, blushing like a schoolboy on his first date.

He also felt the judgmental glare of _Zorro_ throwing daggers at his back as soon as Six and the rest abandoned the tent, taking the indignant young man with them, leaving him to deal with this walking temptation in the shape of a tall, dark and handsome colleague whose pale eyes were as peppered with laugh as his shirt was with blood.

And then, he was attracted with irresistible polar magnetism as soon as Richards’ hand fell smoothly over his shoulder, burning a hole through his clothing and skin when the other man gently guided him to the nearest patient.

Despite the tent being full to a fault, improvised cots occupied every other available space since the beds had proved insufficient at this point.

“I’d offer you a seat but, as you can see, there’s very little room for anything other than medical instrumental and good intentions, buttercup.” – the doctor said, his burning hand sliding deliciously slow up and down Arcade’s spine. Soothing, gentle. He could get used to this very easily – “Still, I’m sure this is not the worst date a man like you has had, isn’t it?”

Jesus Christ, he kept talking like that and Arcade might actually entertain the notion of him being serious and all.

“I can work with that.” – was all he replied.

And it turned out to be not the worst date he had had. Not at all.

* * *

Vulpes was literally _fuming_ when they got out of that den of _vice_ and _sodomy_ disguised in the form of a medical tent.

How dared they?! Using Latin to _hook up_, of all things! Right on his face!

He should have suspected the Followers medic right from the start: too polite, too well-behaved, too clean, almost _spruced up_ giving the standards a scorching desert can allow on a human body.

But the worst of the pair was that NCR scumbag, perverted enough to announce to the winds his disgusting inclinations! The vice in his eyes when he had given him that vile smile, just like those worms at the casinos that thought they could buy his interest with a handful of caps like he was some cheap whore!

“You saw his face?” – he heard Cassidy giggling amidst the roar of his inner turmoil – “He was positively _glowing_ pink when Richards flexed out his own dosage of funny gibberish! Bet under that medical coat he was turning out a little puddle of _‘Yas!’_”

_Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption and filth everywhere._

“I know, right?” – Becky answered with a dreamy sigh – “It was simply too cute! Those two are so _very_ shippable. I knew a second meet would work things out a little smoother than the previous time!”

‘Cute’, they said… Those… those… _inverted_ pieces of…

He was so angry, submerged in his very personal vortex of bile and all manner of destructive feelings, that he didn’t felt when his right hand was taken but rather acknowledging it when his arm experienced a soft pull.

“Let’s take a walk.” – the Courier, Sullivan, said in a mild tone while clicking her tongue twice to catch the attention of their canine company – “C’mon, Rexie! Walkies time!”

The cyberdog answered immediately by barking happily as he got a few paces ahead of the youngsters.

If still livid enough to ponder slapping her hand off his’ in an ultimately petty refusal, Vulpes wasn’t so delusional to think such a stupid, infantile reaction wouldn’t bring him more ill than actual satisfaction, and complied wordlessly. Besides, the sniper didn’t seem too happy to let them go alone with the dog when Raul, very subtlety, asked him out to play a hand of Caravan at the camp’s mess hall.

_Deal with it, Profligate._ – he thought smugly as he sneaked a peek over his shoulder, meeting the deep sunglassed frown from the other man, who had done exactly the same.

Sullivan guided them calmly around the encampment in complete silence, allowing Vulpes a full view of the setting: despite having been established since 2274, much earlier than when the first Legion scout had reported the existence of the dam, Camp Forlorn Hope didn’t boast good planning when it came to defenses and patrols, the assembling haste evident in the mixture of tents, tin shacks, rubble, and sandbags scattered around the Forlorn Hope Spring water source with very little logistics in mind.

Despite the larger number of soldiers garrisoned here than the ones who had been in Nelson, along with many harmless civilians that had posed no challenge against trained legionaries, Camp Forlorn Hope might prove a child’s play in his sister’s hands and, most prominently, Dead Sea’s.

Vulpes was already – figuratively – licking his inner fox’s whiskers thinking how easy would be to take this encampment with only those two _contubernia_ and a handful of his Frumentarii. They didn’t need Lanius to secure the Western shore of the river.

Just a little more time allowing Dead Sea terrorizing NCR patrols until he could present the idea to Caesar and…

“I’m sorry for what happened inside the medical tent.” – he heard Sullivan saying – “The idea was to allow Arcade to have a bit of quality time with Richards but…” – she sighed tiredly, feeling his fingers becoming rigid between hers – “Look, Richards is a big flirt, but he doesn’t mean anything by it, okay? Vero says he’s totally into Arcade, so you don’t have to…”

“I don’t need to hear the details of a _homosexual affair_ that I am not in the slightest interested in.” – he cut her tersely, his eyes disdainful when she shot him a doe-eyed look from her smaller stature – “Alas, this explanation of yours is entirely unnecessary.” – again, he felt that petty impulse of prying his hand out of hers when her fingers squeezed his’ in a soothing manner.

He didn’t need _cooing_. He could perfectly deal with the immense _disgust_ that piece of _human trash_ had invoked in…

“It’s okay if you’re angry because his advances upset you.” – she spoke again calmly, soothing, her thumb drawing circling patterns on the back of his hand, eliciting a conflicting combination of both violent repulse and a strange warmness that wanted more of it – “He’s almost twice your age. It’s not okay for an educated doctor to hit on whomever he deems yummy enough this carelessly as if was nothing and everything is cool and stuff. He should act more responsible.”

Despite that a tiny part of his brains acknowledged that she, somehow, had called him “yummy”; and that her words were operating an odd balmy sensation around him, he resisted the unexpected comfort a bit.

“I am _not_ a child.” – as he said that, he couldn’t help but feeling a bit infantile at having to state evidence – “Not in _their_ culture, less even in _mine_.” – he wanted for it to be clear. In the Legion, you were already a man when you turned up fifteen… despite them being, most of the time, big hormonal kids armed with big deadly machetes – “You, on the other hand, at least by _their_ standards, are _underage_. You should be more concerned about _yourself_ and any unwanted attention _you_ might attract.”

He knew his attempt at diverting the conversation far from him had not worked when she snorted.

“It depends with who do you compare with.” – she replied – “You said that, by _your_ standards, I’m not a kid, right?” – he wasn’t sure where she wanted to go with this conversation, but before he could open his mouth, she continued – “Now, indistinctly of cultural acceptance or not… compare me with the rest of the group.”

He gave her a questioning stare when she made a gesture with her free hand like saying _“There you are”_.

“See what I mean?” – she asked – “Now, compare yourself with Richards and there we go: next to him, you’re a kid the same you’re an adult next to a five-year-old.” – he almost felt indignant again until she added – “That’s why I’m so happy you’re here. You know what’s this stuff about, being young and all, so you get me… most of the time; and that’s cool.”

Wait, _what_?

His head was spinning so fast that he almost didn’t notice that they had gotten on the outskirts of the large encampment, walking near the spring’s upper ravine, the watch posts already out of earshot. Rex having the time of his life splashing in and out the water.

“I wanted to ask you something…”

With the many new perspectives still wrapping around his head, Vulpes answered almost automatically.

“Yes?”

The way she bit her lower lip, as if considering her next choice of words, distracted him. They stopped at the foot of the small waterfall and she took her sweet time before getting back on track, her boots and socks neatly put by her side as she plunged her naked feet on the water, watching absently Rex play. He had joined her after a brief hesitation.

“Did you… hum… knew about the Searchlight incident?”

For the first time since he had officially joined this strange ragtag group, her words paralyzed him.

He didn’t take her for an idiot. She clearly had done the math considering the timeline that NCR pervert had given to them in the medical tent and she was asking if he had something to do with, at least, Searchlight.

With his brains at full speed, he considered his options cautiously: he could attempt to feed her a lie she likely wasn’t going to buy; he could tell her a half-lie about him knowing everything about the operations but not being directly implicated with their development… or he could tell her the truth.

Nonetheless, they weren’t in a fully controlled environment and he wasn’t likely going to risk his cover while surrounded by NCR troops just because of a tongue slip.

So, putting on a confident smile he didn’t feel in the slightest, he inclined over her, invading her personal space, and grabbed her chin lightly, tipping her face up. The adorable pink tint spreading from the very tips of his fingers up her face and down her neck, as if he had just dropped red ink in water, coloring the entire surface, gave him some leverage.

“Oh, Sullivan, Sullivan…” – he murmured, his voice a caress in its entirety, carefully molded for distraction, chanting her surname delicately, aiding on increasing her blushing – “You really shouldn’t ask questions whose answers are bound to, perhaps, disappoint you.”

Despite her evident nervousness, he had to concede that she managed to hold herself together well enough when her eyes didn’t abandon his’ in favor of acknowledging just how close their lips were to one another.

“I… see.” – she said, the tiny point of her pinkish tongue moistening briefly her lips, awakening in him a brief impulse of wanting to bite them – “So…”

“So?” – he pressed gently.

He watched how her slender throat undulated so slightly as she swallowed, another impulse of biting coming over him and leaving as soon as it came.

“I guess… eleven days gives room for a lot of things besides getting Hydra-poisoned and asking _your uncle_ for permission to travel at your leisure.” – she replied, to his much dismay, effectively summing up his whereabouts during that time.

Nonetheless, he pressed her a little more. Just to see.

“The Hydra incident wasn’t… scheduled.” – he admitted, his smile becoming wolfish, his voice lowering whereas his thumb traced her small jaw up to her ear, allocating a short lock of pitch-black hair behind it with deliberate slowness – “Other than that, I would have returned much sooner… for there is quite a _lot of things_ one can do with _very little time_ on their hands.”

The words had been deliberate to a fault, an open invitation to a world of possibilities. No further questions on her part, the more she had to gain.

Like the song said, _a little less conversation_.

“Y-yeah…” – and her brains _still_ worked to weave more dialogue out of those lips of hers – “I've… already surmised that much…”

Damn it, but the girl was _resilient_. Vulpes wasn’t quite sure what wasn’t working here, but he didn’t get the chance to ponder further on it when the speedy weight of Rex threw them both backwards into the water.

As the pond wasn’t as nearly deep as to reach one’s knees, nobody got hurt, nor drowned when the canine pinned them both down and started lapping at the girl’s face as if he recognized her for the first time since the operation.

“Whoahahahahaha!” – she squealed, delighted to see the cyberdog as affectionate as he had been before, hugging its cybernetic body lovingly – “Rexie!! Is that you at last?!” – more enthusiastic lapping was the only answer she got – “Gimmie kissies, gimmie all the kissies you want, puppy.”

The animal barked happily and continued doing so.

Vulpes emerged from the pond soaked, white curls sticking to his eyes and nose, unamused and slightly resenting the dog for achieving effortlessly what he cannot.

He didn’t get it: she was, up to some extent, physically attracted to him whereas he didn’t find her awful and was willing.

So, what? Wasn’t that enough? He had worked with much less and without finding the women he had been forced to engage as nearly as… well… _Nice? Distracting?_ As she was.

Observing her laughing with the dog still splashing around her, sitting up to pet the animal and receiving more drooling love in exchange, the Master Frumentarius found that his work would be infinitely easier if she just… kind of submitted to seduction so he would be able to conduct her exploits to his convenience.

Whenever a hard decision has to be made? Kiss her until she agrees to do as he asks.

Whatever difficult questions not meant to be answered arise? Kiss her until she forgets what the question was in the first place.

Whenever comes up the opportunity to ask her to work for Caesar? Kiss her until she says _‘yes’_ to everything.

That was the formula, those were his orders. He wasn't stranger to obtaining a woman's collaboration through these means.

Plus, he wouldn’t mind. That would make the issue less awkward, more authentic, right? Right. He was flexible, he could incorporate it into his performance. It could endure the test of time as long as his Lord required it.

What wasn't working, then? What did she want out of him?

She would coo his issues with perverts and walk with him hand in hand… but she wasn’t after anything else? That made no sense.

She wanted something. What that something was, he hadn’t the faintest clue… but she wanted something. Hell, he wanted something.

Everybody always wants something in exchange. Those were the rules.

It applied to every single human being, Profligates or not.

Even Caesar himself always wanted something. You did your job well, he rewarded you. You botched up a job, the punishment would vary between ten or twenty lashes, _Decimatio_, crucifixion or… what happened with the Malpais _Legatus_, cursed be his name.

Simple. Easy. Clear.

He hadn’t noticed how _circular_ and _basic_ his logic had become in his distress and frustration until she spoke again.

“I will speak with Arcade once he's done with Richards.” – she announced, eyeing him as serious as a wet person with a rolling cyberdog around could be – “I… have reached a decision.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "Father"  
(2) - "It is not what I like to do the most."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> LATIN:
> 
> (A) - "We are not born for ourselves alone."  
(B) - "Remember to live."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: Apologies it took me so long to update, but I was preparing my C1 English exams so I can get the official certificate.  
Don't hate him yet, as Vulpes has to evolve throughout the story just as Six.  
I was kind of nervous making their exchange so up close, given that none of them have figured out what they want with the other just yet. You know? That kind of fooling around without really taking it to a point, peppered with excuses and the sort. I hope it came out respectably T_T  
Anyhow, the small asterisk (*) comes from taking out that very phrase of another AMAZING F:NV fic you really should read: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169756/chapters/247834  
Other than that, thank you a thousand times to those people reviewing and reading my story!! ♥♥♥ Hopefully, soon, action will be coming up together and I will be able to write more characters outside the main group.
> 
> Cheers! :D


	16. Dead Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to rape, torture, child's kidnapping and Cultural Deletion... Why are you still here if this is not your cup of tea? XD

* * *

Camp Forlorn Hope's graveyard held a heaviness that Arcade wasn't sure he could stomach much longer.

Not after having been tending moribund soldiers for the last two days non-stop, playing more the butcher role than the physician he was supposed to be.

Burials had been held; short, undignified, demeaning ceremonies that ended with naked corpses thrown in a dark hole - mostly for the sake that their military equipment could be reused for other soldiers - and ill-shaped wooden crosses sinking at the head of each earthy mound.

But the worst thing had been the many letters he and Alex had unearthed out of the duffle bags of the dead. Nine in total. All of them filled with love for their families, friends and lovers, fears and many regrets.

The Follower, up today, hadn't realized just how bad the situation was on this side of the river.

Nonetheless, he couldn't begin to fathom why Six had decided to guide him back here when she had presented this afternoon on the medical tent, asking to have a talk with him as soon as he got a moment. Her eyes never leaving the floor as if looking at him had been for her too much to bear.

So here he was, sweeping his eyes all over the recently stirred up earth, watching crows perching around, finding the setting disturbing to no end, feeling like one of those dusty cowboys from the few holodisks the Followers had managed to preserve about duels at gunpoint at dusk when Six's soft voice found his ears.

"Sorry I've cited you here, but there's next to none privacy at the camp." – turning around, he watched the small girl standing several paces in front of him, her face stubbornly down, brows furrowed – "I… I wouldn't want to…" – out of a sudden, she threw her head up violently, her eyes widening as she unholstered her 10mm – "DUCK!"

The man didn't know how he ended crouched on the ground, but two shots later and slimy green liquid sliding the back of his medical coat down his boots gave him an approximated idea.

"S-sorry!" – he heard her squeak, using a balled handkerchief to take out the worst of it – "Ewwwww… gross."

Arcade couldn't help but agree with her as soon as he turned around to face the scattered remains of the most disgusting, hugest black bloatfly ever. Those were the worst as their eggs held a small amount of radioactive fluids, corroding the flesh much faster than their common cousins as soon as they come into contact with it.

"The smell of dead flesh must have attracted it." – the blonde doctor mused, stretching his hand idly to take the handkerchief from hers – "Don't worry, I can…" – but he soon fell silent when he watched her retiring her hand briskly out of pure reflex.

An awkward silence ensued.

Her hand trembled when she sighed, her lips pressed tightly.

"I… I cannot keep going on like this, Arcade. I can't…" – once again, there she was: a girl attempting to suppress tears as she fumbled with adult decisions. This very beacon of hope everybody followed in the hopes she could solve their problems when she couldn't even deal with her own insecurities herself – "I am… not doing a good job at keeping this group's cohesion wholesome so far and…" – she sobbed, and it broke his heart that he couldn't reach for her to offer comfort – "I'm… what I'm trying to say is…"

He understood.

As much as it pained him, he… understood.

"I see." – he muttered after a while, his voice soft despite all - "I know that I have no right asking you this given the circumstances, but… before I leave the group, I would like to ask for a last favor."

Her eyes saddened greatly, as if her own decision weighted dearly on her, but she nodded.

"Anything." – she muttered.

Despite everything, Arcade found that she, at least, appreciated him enough to comply with his wishes.

That allowed him some measure of mental peace.

She wasn't the monster Henry had feared those experiments had made out of her, but an innocent victim of human misdeeds.

"Please, take me back to the Old Mormon Fort." – upon seeing her confused face, he smiled sadly – "No attraction is so great to warrant my permanent stay here, Six. Even love itself sometimes is not enough." – they both would know it, as their friendship had ultimately demonstrated – "Nonetheless, for what it's worth, know that I will always consider you a friend, no matter how we depart. And I hope you will find the peace you're looking for, Six." – tears were now sliding down her pale countenance as she eyed him, for the first time since that chilling room in Jacobstown, with something vaguely akin to affection – "And, if it makes you feel better, I'm sorry. For my history having been played such a grim part in yours."

She smiled sadly as well, nodding.

_"Et in Arcadia ego, quoque."_ **_(1)_** – she said, retracing her steps back to the camp.

It wasn't until her silhouette disappeared amidst rusted hovels and tents that he allowed himself to cry as well.

* * *

When Stella woke up that morning, her first instinct upon watching this blonde bastard that said he was now her "new Master" approaching her tied up form was to deliver a violent kick on his chin as the women who attended her three times a day deemed that, for relieving issues, she should be allowed certain movements. But the son of a bitch was quicker than she had thought when he caught midair her ankle effortlessly.

"Rising and shining already, Stella?" – he asked half-humorously, his hand not letting go of her leg – "That's good. Very good, indeed." – he nodded, securing a thin metallic bracelet around her now twisting ankle before letting it go – "That should ensure your cooperation well enough once I've freed you from those ropes." – Stella didn't lose any time and started kicking furiously, aiming to cripple, while her teeth lashed on a blind chase for weak spots. She wasn't letting this bastard to have his way with her without a fight – "Very well, if this is how you wanna play, let's play then." – he said before trapping her legs between his in a vice grip, sitting on her buckling knees while one hand held her by the throat whereas the other undid the rope's knots.

Once freed from her ties, she threw a punch to his face he easily blocked… but she managed to fit a hit in-between his ribs that took the air off his lungs while his eyes widened down to comical and very satisfying proportions.

She was able to get rid of his considerable weight with a fighting maneuver that rendered him at her mercy, hitting his nape hard against tamped earth.

She punched him at her leisure, pinning him to the ground out of sheer brute force while he kept defending his face and neck. Guess the vain piece of shit didn't want his pretty face going wasted due to a crooked nose and fewer teeth.

She then sunk with all her strength her hips down where she knew it hurt the most, but she only earned a mild grunt before the brute piece of crap headbutted her, effectively throwing her off him.

With her nose bleeding profusely, Stella made a desperate dash to the tent's aperture, trying to remember the gigantic camp's setting so she could attempt a last stand against her captors that would allow her the possibility of escaping.

Dead or alive wasn't really important.

Her adrenaline-induced brains did not process that, during her mad run, not a single legionary was attempting to stop her until the metallic anklet let out a loud beeping before the most searing pain she had ever experienced in all her life captured her whole right leg from toes to crotch, paralyzing her muscles at once and making her fall facing the muddy ground.

In-between waves of pain, tears and bloodied snot, she registered a chorus of male laughs surrounding her until she was lifted over someone's shoulder like a potato sack. Her right leg limp and burning.

"Alright gentlemen, show's over." – the voice of the blonde bastard vibrated against her hip, where he had thrown her next to his throat and shoulder. Her head orientated downwards was making her feel dizzy until a hard smack on her rear made her cheeks burn in shame while the chorus of laughs reignited followed by loud whistling as the motherfucker started walking away – "Did you think for a second that the ankle device was for nothing, Stella?" – he asked in a lower tone, clearly only intended for her to hear – "Collar bombs make an easy getaway for recalcitrant slaves, such as yourself, with suicidal tendencies; so I tend to prefer it better a shock bracelet programmed with a radius of my choosing." – sinking his knuckles on a nerve that made her howl when she had made a last weak attempt to kick him again with her working leg, he added – "Walk away from me further more than sixty feet – a reasonable enough distance for now, if you ask me - and _this_ will happen again. As simple as that." – he explained, his odious voice always so calm. Stella hated him for that – "C'mon, Ranger, I didn't take you for an idiot: did you really thought that escaping from Caesar would be that easy? Lesson number one: learn your place and adapt to the circumstances… or suffer pain. Your choice entirely, really, as death is a precious commodity around these parts. The more if you are a woman."

* * *

Adjusting the rim of his sunglasses over his sweating nose, Boone treaded through the invisible waves of burning asphalt with the same angry steps with which he had retraced his shameful, inglorious march almost four years ago on Bitter Springs back to Vegas to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

Now, he wished they could get back to the tomb that the Lucky 38 was as soon as possible so he could empty the kitchen's fridge from beers. Maybe he would even entertain the tumbleweed's taste for whiskey if he felt like it.

And why the Hell not? Maybe he would take it a bit further and get himself a seat at The Tops' bar and fantasize that the bartender, instead of being a balding Asian guy, was the most captivating, talkative and joyous Hispanic girl he had ever seen.

He knew that there would never be another Carla waiting for him at the other side of the bar, but alcohol – at least for him - tended to evoke fantasies the size he would only get in his dreams.

At least, regarding alcohol consumption, he always got that false sensation of control that his dreams lacked.

At least, when he was drunk, he didn't feel the impulse of strangling a certain albino shit disrupting the formation briefly to murmur something on the ear of the girlie.

_His_ girlie.

He didn't know what the bastard had promised to her, but Boone knew it couldn't be good or true since pretty words coming out of the mouth of such a big-timed charlatan were bound to sound nice despite that their hidden meaning might be not so.

Whereas everybody – apparently - saw a gangly, socially awkward boy with cherubic curly hair and puppy blue eyes, he saw through the guise better than anyone.

For what he saw was a smug bastard who took great pains to let him know just how wrapped he had the rest of the group around his pinky, most prominently, the girlie.

Boone got it: she was seventeen, she got hormones and stuff… and the prissy motherfucker was good with words.

Perhaps too good since he had managed to extract from her effortlessly what neither of them had managed to this day: her true name.

Maybe it had happened randomly and she didn't feel like telling the rest yet… but it pained Boone that she hadn't come first to him to tell him what her family name was and, instead, the albino shit was on – figuratively speaking – first-name terms with her.

Sullivan was her surname. Like a guy he had known during his instruction. Johnny Sullivan.

Weren't it because said guy had died back on Bitter Springs, Boone would have considered introducing them should they ended being distant family or something.

Because, given the girlie's past, if far-fetched, might have ended being true and all.

Which reminded him of how they had gotten that _particular_ piece of information: through the lips of the albino shit, who now was her _confidante_ as well.

It irked Boone to no end, knowing that the rat had an upper hand regarding her decisions when it came to the group, such as their new formations.

Boone was very conscious that this idea of asking him for counsel on military tactics had come from the albino shit despite that they barely can stand each other.

Plus, quite _coincidentally_, that since he had been officially gotten inside, the group was falling apart: the tumbleweed had started drinking like no tomorrow again, Veronica looked upset and anxious, Lily was mentioning that creepy Leo fella she had on her head more often than strictly usual, and… Arcade was directly leaving.

Yet another decision the girlie hadn't informed to the rest of the group but the directly involved and, again, the tricky charlatan.

Everybody intuited it, but nobody was speaking about it since Veronica was _still_ attempting – and failing miserably – to mend the rift between the doctor and the girlie.

Boone knew it wasn't his turn to speak but… he wished he could give the girlie a piece of his mind about all of this.

Which he wasn't going to do anyway, not with that piece of shit whispering not-so-sweet nothings into her ear, but it irked him the same.

"The GPS signal reads that the lost shipment is nearby." – the girlie announced, her little nose scrunching under sunglasses too big for her as she read radio signals on her device – "Um… maybe under that rock ledge over there. Seems a good place to take a break away from the sun."

_And to suffer an ambush too._ \- Boone thought somberly, gripping his rifle a little bit more tightly.

This was yet another of those unpaid missions Polatli had decided to burden them with. Not happy enough with the odd radio reports for Sergeant Reyes, the medical assistance and that investigation around a junkie Private stealing from the medical tent's supplies, now the man wanted Courier Six to play errand girl for the umpteenth time.

He hated to admit it but, despite that Boone was all helping when it came to the NCR, his fellow countrymen weren't exactly very persuasive when it came to gain allies if allowing their group to stay but not giving them any payment even under the guise of packed rations or paper money, as devaluated as it was, didn't help their cause at all.

They found the metallic storage crates intact under the rock ledge… accompanied by several not-so-intact corpses of NCR troopers.

Corvids were already feasting on the rotten remains, signaling this had happened a while ago, so everybody immediately got tense. If they hadn't ransacked the corpses or their load already, this was a trap.

Boone felt them before he saw them.

Dressed in those damnable red rags and stupid football equipment, eight muscled brutes armed to the teeth with chainsaws, rifles, knives and machetes quickly surrounded their group ready to strike until their captain - one of those dudes they called a _Decanus_ or something like that – held a hand in the air.

Boone's teeth gnashed virulently when he felt the girlie's hand over the nozzle of his own rifle as well.

Eyeing the components of their group one by one, the _Decanus_ quickly ruled out the women and non-human to give a critical look to the three men left, aiming for Arcade as he likely deemed Boone's red beret and the charlatan's Riot Gear too… NCR.

"You are not soldiers of the Republic." – he spoke, his odious tone haughty and commanding, his accent strong – "At least… not all of you. This capture is ours. Leave in peace and you shall not be crucified." – his stare hardened as he kept on his clearly essayed speech – "Attempt putting up any manner of hostility against us, and you shall be punished in the name of our Lord Caesar."

Arcade licked his lips nervously, unsure of how to respond to the other man until the girlie took on her usual speaker role.

"We have come to retrieve the shipment and news regarding these troopers." - she explained, her voice calm – "Please, at least allow us to collect their tags so we…"

"I wasn't talking to you, _woman_!" – the _Decanus_ barked, clearly displeased for having to deal with someone he, in the first place, clearly thought they should never be heard unless spoken to – "Learn your place and behave should you want to leave this spot with both of your legs intact!"

Boone wanted so, so bad to fill the teeth of this piece of shit with a good load of lead…

"Quite an… _unbecoming_ behavior coming from a Legion officer of all." – out of a sudden, the usually monochord voice of the albino was unleashing a slippery, serpentine, chilling to the bone quality that put Boone's hairs on edge. Turning his sight to the source of the voice, he found the tricky bastard without his helmet with his inhumanly pale chin sitting atop the girlie's hair, his arms surrounding her tiny shoulders the likes of snakes, long hands covered in black gloves resembling tarantulas caressing her neck lightly. A big, taut scissor smile set upon his lips as he continued – "She was just explaining to you our business here very politely, even saying _'please'_… and your answer is repaying courtesy and good manners with violent threats? _Very disappointing_."

Boone noticed how each one of them started to exchange silent, bewildered glances, not knowing exactly where this conversation was going. A gesture the eight brutes in red mirrored between them while their _Decanus_ kept his sight nailed to the new spokesman, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"This capture is ours." – he insisted, his tone having gone immediately from haughty to cautious in a matter of seconds.

"Oh, no doubt about that." – the albino _purred_ – "Alas, we're also in need of those supplies, and we do intend on taking them with us."

Boone watched closely the exchange, trying to decipher the expression of the _Decanus_, searching for connections.

"We aren't giving away our well-deserved prize." – Boone observed the man hesitating, biting down that fancy "P" word the Reds liked to bestow upon those who weren't Legion – "Our orders." – he quickly added, as if trying to _justify_ himself.

The ex-First Recon couldn't believe his eyes: this man _feared_ the prissy bastard.

"Well now, if you feel strongly about it, attack us." – said bastard replied coldly, his creepy smile getting Cheshire proportions by the minute – "And soon you won't feel a thing." – if the situation hadn't been so incredibly dangerous, Boone would have fed his boot to the audacious little shit when he nuzzled a bit into the girlie's hair like an overly-affectionate coyote – "Lily?"

Ah, yes. Boone had forgotten that their big grandma was still camouflaged.

As soon as the mantle of the Stealth Boy she had been using so they won't be shot upon reaching HELIOS One to ask for the lost shipment was cast down, Boone smiled as he watched the horror painted all over the faces of the nine Reds.

"Lily." – the albino continued lightly, as if he were talking about the weather – "Do enlighten the gentlemen about what are you going to do to them if they refuse to collaborate."

**"LILY SMASH!"** – the supermutant declared cheerfully, her booming voice making some of the legionaries take a step back – **"HAHA!"**

Boone wasn't the only one enjoying himself a tad too much, as he could see from the corner of his eye the smug smiles the redhead and Veronica were exhibiting. The only ones that didn't found the situation amusing in the slightest were Raul, who probably knew better than any of them; Arcade, ever the brains of their little party; and the girlie, who was still eyeing the _Decanus_ with a very serious look.

Boone had never witnessed a Red before behaving so _reasonable_ when he docilely nodded in defeat.

"We will retire peacefully." – he acquiesced, directing an apologetic glance to the girlie as he inclined his head solemnly – "_Vale,_ _domina._" **_(2)_** – he said before gesturing to his men, who followed him obediently.

Watching them walk off with their tails between their legs, the drunkard left out a long whistle.

"I'd never thought I would say this, but _holy fuck_, Tribal Boy." – she said – "Guess putting that finicky vocabulary to work from time to time can't do any ill. Best psycho interpretation ever."

Boone wasn't so sure it had been an interpretation _at all_… but hey, it had worked, did it not?

"I disapprove of ill manners." – was all the explanation the tumbleweed received; unsettling blue eyes still nailed up to the distant Reds' backs – "The more if they come from the head of a whole military unit without knowing what humility is in the first place."

Veronica snorted.

"Well, they're Legion, Jimmy. What did you expect?"

The interpellated said nothing, eyes still looking the distant red dots, squinting in a hard stare until the girlie squeezed his hands to get his attention.

Boone's short-lived joy upon thinking she was going to call him out of his overly-handsy behavior with her went to the gutter as soon as his head inclined downwards and hers upwards, eyes meeting over the rim of her sunglasses despite their inverted positions, and she mouthed a _'thank you'_ to him.

Boone frowned when the answer she received was a gentle smile, cold blue eyes losing their usual frostiness when she smiled back.

* * *

Stella watched with bitter eyes how the blonde scumbag finished bandaging her right ankle in complete silence. The healing dust he had used to cover the burns around it felt itchy under the fresh bandages.

"Now, put your foot up there while the salve and the powder take effect." – he instructed, signaling a tower of three cushions he had put at the end of the sleeping bag she was lying on – "You will be out of your feet for today. Maybe a couple days more if you insist on being a nuisance by not following my indications." – he added, a slight hint of annoyance patent on his voice, which made her hold up her chin in defiance – "But, as I've previously stated: your choice entirely."

Huffing, she finally caved and did as told. She wasn't going to get very far if she cannot use her legs properly.

Because she intended on finding out where this bastard had the detonator of her anklet hidden so she could slit his throat by night, steal from him, dress as one of them and get out of this hellhole as soon as possible.

However, she became bored soon concocting escaping plans inside her head while looking at the tent's ceiling, so she turned her head to watch her captor's sitting, barefooted form frowning as he pushed on reading a book he didn't look like that he was enjoying much.

He had small feet… for a man.

"I just don't get you." – she voiced after a while – "If you intend on fucking me, you don't need to put all this charade up pretending to care about my wellbeing and shit." – she frowned when his eyes lifted from his reading – "If this is an attempt to brainwashing me into believing you Skirt Boys are nice, forget about it."

He rolled his eyes.

"Contrary to common NCR belief, we _do_ care for our slaves not becoming ill or hurt under our tutelage." – when she scoffed at his words, he added – "Anyway, it is _I_ who doesn't get _you_ at all and those comments about rape and the like."

"You lot are a bunch of savaging rapists." – she replied scathingly – "And don't try to deny it. I've talked with enough female survivors from your raids to know."

"Savaging, maybe." – he conceded – "Rapists… you'll find that not all of us are interested in taking advantage of unwilling women that would sooner fuck a horny supermutant rather than any of us."

Was he trying to be funny? Because his brand of humor was darker than a pit full of rancid shit.

"Says you." – she retorted, defiantly.

"Says me." – he agreed – "Anyway, trust me on this one, Ranger: the only part of your body I'm interested in are your fists and how much damage they can inflict. In other words: you're not my type." - he added, rather flippantly – "Can't speak for the others, though."

"Your gay or what?" – she mocked; a bit insulted by his statement about her not being his type but relieved that he wouldn't pose a problem in the near future when it came to her sexual integrity.

He cocked up a sandy brow.

"Why should I feel cheerful upon discussing these things with you?" – he asked, confused.

"What? No, that wasn't… urgh." – she brought a hand to her brow, for her head was starting to hurt. She couldn't fucking believe she was having this conversation with a _goddamned_ legionary of all – "I asked you if you are into guys or something."

"That's how do you call the inverted?" – he asked incredulously – "_'Gay'_?"

"Gosh… you guys are such _unbelievable_ big assholes."

"Says the woman accusing a man of being homosexual just because he isn't interested in bedding her."

"What?! Fuck you! You're playing on my words!"

"Facts, Stella, facts."

"Urgh… you're damn lucky I cannot walk over there and punch your stupid face down to a pulp."

She regretted saying that upon watching him smile.

"Oh, I'm looking forward to it very much, Ranger. Very, very much."

"You're… weird."

"As my idiot of a brother often says."

She rolled her eyes and took them back to the tent ceiling, back to her plots of escaping and other fantastic improbabilities.

However, she found that, as hours kept passing and the more bizarre her schemes got, the less bloody they were starting to evolve towards her captor.

She wasn't sure if she should feel worried or not.

* * *

Six left the Forlorn Hope Spring encampment along with her group literally _fuming_.

She wasn't returning any time soon, if _ever_.

_"With the help you've given us, we're doing a little bit better, but we still have the Legion forces at Nelson to deal with."_

Not only they had approved this weird contest a Private had hold about collecting _body parts_ – ears, to be precise. A custom that had brought unwanted memories about her years in partnership with Littlehorn & Associates - out of dead legionaries in exchange for caps to prove how many kills they got right… but Polatli had had the _nerve_ to ask her to do their dirty work.

_"If we can retake Nelson, that will be a huge help to our efforts in this area and give us an advantage at Hoover Dam. I was hoping someone as famous as you would have some time to spare to help us rid of those Legion bastards."_

_Zorro_ had _tensed_ behind her. His hands over her shoulders becoming rigid and clammy inside the huge commanding tent.

Neither the others had looked too enthusiastic about engaging Legion thugs on a scale that big. Only Boone had seemed way _too_ ready to start shooting 'Reds' like no tomorrow.

She had asked why didn't do it themselves now that all the wounded had been stabilized and supplies had come to their rescue. They had had men enough to do it.

_"You are armed and have a small squad at your disposition, among them a First Recon and, above all, a _freaking_ supermutant. That should make a big difference, I say."_

Why everybody tended to see Lily as a tool? Good enough to smash some heads, but too dangerous to allow her to sleep inside one of their tents or share communal spaces like the mess hall.

Six hated how many people, especially the Republicans, saw a friendly mutant and immediately assumed that they didn't have two brain cells to answer for, so why in the first place would they ask for their opinion before start ordering them around?

Peaceful supermutants only wanted to re-insert into human society and to be respected just like any other… but humans, usually, were greedy, profiteering pieces of crap that always took advantage either from their FEV-affected intellects… or their mental illnesses.

Their feelings got hurt? They were supermutants, they didn't have feelings. They were like animals. They were monsters. That was always the sorry excuse everybody put on when confronted about being assholes with the mutant community.

It was small wonder why they didn't trust humans to begin with.

Lily trusted her, and Marcus had secretly entrusted her with Lily's custody. She wasn't going to use their sweet grandma as a war tool to stir more hatred between two opposing factions. Minus Boone and Cass, none of them were NCR and they weren't working for them.

Besides… she wasn't betraying _Zorro's_ trust. He had helped her out with those legionaries and he was slowly opening up to her. Becoming one of the group. She wasn't repaying loyalty and kindness with a move so backstabbing as this one.

So, she had said no.

And, out of a sudden, the air inside the commanding tent had gotten down several degrees. Polatli hadn't been precisely _ecstatic_ upon her refusal.

_"Everybody has to pick a side at some point, kid_." – he had told her with that severe, almost condescending paternalist tone she despised so much coming from older people – _"Be sure you are choosing the correct one."_

And what do they know about _correct_ or _incorrect_ sides? They knew _shit_, that's what she thought.

Since then, they were crossing desert down the Highway 95 before the nearing evening finished setting on. Hopefully, they would arrive at Novac by nightfall.

Boone had fallen into one of his tense silences. Those kind of silences that spoke volumes by themselves, mostly screaming to the winds his displeasure.

Since he was the one guiding their formation, his furious stomping and the rigidness of his posture was visible to everybody.

And it was getting to them at a fast pace. Even to _Zorro_, who was grabbing his rifle with a bit more force than necessary.

Raul was the one breaking the ice, his soft cracked tone a momentary balm for many of them.

"Don't worry, Boss. I'm sure the tension in the air is just... um… a thunderstorm?" – barely two seconds later after those half-joking words had abandoned his peeled off lips, the crack of thunder made every single one of them jump – "Okay, so maybe I should really shut my mouth right now before anything else happens."

Another thunder explosion and, the moment they got their eyes upon the blackening sky, blue lightning veins were already crossing between greying clouds.

"Oh, shit." – Cass complained – "I hate it when the desert weather decides to behave randomly. It usually precedes tough luck if you don't get a place to hide while it passes."

They accelerated their already brisk march and, by the time they caught sight of the enormous silhouette of Dinky the Dinosaur, a near-blinding downpour was already kicking in full along with the occasional waves of radiation.

"The Geiger Counter is getting crazy!" – Six exclaimed amidst the rain's uproar, her Pip-Boy's green light the only beacon of light everybody was following through the dense water curtain – "Screw the usual procedure! We're all taking cover at the Dino Dee-lite Motel's front desk! I'm not abandoning Lily out in the open!" – no matter that supermutants were immune to radiation the same as ghouls. Nobody deserved to be left outside with this weather – "If we'll take it together, Briscoe won't say a damn thing! C'mon!"

If her memory served her well (which, she hoped, it was right this time around) the reception entrance hall should have more than enough room for all of them.

Rex was the first one getting inside, shacking water out his fur and cybernetic body energetically.

"Just fan-fucking-tastic." – Cass complained once more, taking her cowboy hat to shake it off water the same she drained her already dripping long hair with the other – "I can't feel my titties as cold as they are, and my fucking twat's screaming the way my knickers got twisted inside these _goddamned_ jeans. Not even a good shot of whiskey would help me much with the cold now… but, what the Hell." – she huffed, taking her hip flask from her utility belt, giving it a good swing while directing her frowning stare to her most immediate neighbor – "You lucky bastard. Hope you're _asphyxiating_ inside that tin can over your head."

Taking off his helmet, _Zorro_ shook his dry white curls in dramatic flair.

"If it is of any consolation, miss Cassidy, I'm freezing." – he deadpanned, though a slightly humorous tint slide through his flat intonation.

Cass snorted in response.

"Urgh… this cannot be good for my arthritic joints. _At all_." – Raul grumbled unhappily until a towel was cast over his bony shoulders, a pair of hands aiding on his drying gently – _"Gracias, mi niña bonita."** (A)** _\- he murmured appreciatively to a smiling, soaked to the bone Vero.

Six heard Arcade sneeze a couple times whereas she roamed around the big room.

"Hello?" – she asked, looking for the manager of the motel, opening the bathroom door and the small storage room behind the counter – "Well, seems like we got lucky and Briscoe is nowhere to be seen, which means we've got booked for the night, guys."

**"Awww, you're such a good girl, looking for a place to stay for grandma."** – Lily chirped, putting around her tiny shoulders a towel as well.

Six smiled, allowing the Nightkin to dry her as if she were a little girl again. In the hands of the gigantic granny, Six felt sometimes like a baby. How easily she manipulated her, treating her weight as if it was nothing, making her feel special and tender and protected.

She often wondered how it would have felt, to hold her Big Bro's and Big Sis' newborn between her arms.

She often wondered if it had been a girl or a boy and with whom it had bear more resemblance. Her own nephew or niece.

She wondered how they had named the baby.

Now… she would never know.

_"Well, we know your vitals are good, kiddo. But that don't mean them bullets didn't leave you nuttier than a Bighorner dropping."_

If only…

_"What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple questions? See if your dogs are still barking."_

The memories were chaotic, plentiful… but the more they insisted upon ordering themselves inside her faulty brain, the more the pain came to knock back at her door.

_"All right. I'm gonna say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind."_

Answers, answers… memories. Some recent, some distant, like a dream she always woke up from, finding herself staring at the schematics of the bomb detonator.

_"Dog."_

Dogmeat. Laura's dog. A good dog. A loving dog that used to give lots of humid kissies.

A dead dog.

_"House."_

Robert Edwin House. The Platinum Chip. Burke had wanted it. He always wanted things, like a whimsical big child. He never had enough.

He said the Chip held technology that, even before the Great War, had been out of the Enclave's reach. That the original House was still alive.

That he was immortal.

_"Night."_

The night she had walked in Goodsprings. She had planned to rent a room at the Saloon.

Then, a handsome man in an unpolluted checkered suit had sat by her left at the bar, invited her to a Nuka and started making conversation, throwing odd compliments at her, scaring her off. His smile bearing the fangs of a snake.

_"Bandit."_

Powder Gangers. NCR ex-convicts.

She had walked on their old prison out of dumb chance, weaving her way inside with lies, lies she had been taught how to tell. Luckily for her, none of them had been interested in a girl so skeletal and so emaciated as her, quite often taking her for a boy by mistake.

They had lived amidst trash, rusted tin cans and countless empty bottles of liquor, so she had picked up their garbage, saying cleanliness would do them some good whereas she would get good prices from Chet, selling him junk to make up for the caps she also had been robbed.

She also had taken as many Stimpacks as she had been able to snaffle from their infirmary… and their scattered landmines.

She had been taught how to disarm them. She had been taught how to make profit out of stealing.

_"Light."_

The bomb detonation miles ahead. Her screams muffled by rotten hands. Her hands stained with the blood of prospering communities. Communities that had posed a conflict of interest for powerful people. Too powerful.

Megaton. Ashton. Ton… ton… tons of radiation.

Sins unseen, sins untold. Six the sinner.

_"Mother."_

Mommy. Mommy spoke Spanish as well. Her dad had been an immigrant from Spain, Madrid, beyond the seas, who had gotten on American soil shortly after their Second Civil War had burst after decades wallowing in one economical crisis to the next.

Mommy was dead. Daddy was dead. The war had taken them from her.

She hadn't the chance to say goodbye. Neither to Big Bro and his beautiful family.

She had never reached the other side.

_"Hmm. Sometimes when you give tests like this, you learn more than you was hoping for, and I reckon that ain't always the best thing."_

She had fed the old man lies. Random words. Either he had been lying or he had been a better doctor than she had initially suspected.

She had been glad to be able to get out of his dusty house, witness of her memory loss.

The only thing that made her still standing. For she only had memories, a past to explain why the girl of today had been made that way.

Why was she shielding herself behind seven people, a cyberdog and an eyebot against invisible threats. Why wouldn't she pick a side in this war.

Why would she blush under the gaze of a legionary… and pale under the accusing glare of a Republican when the latter directed her a look so nasty, she immediately sought shelter between Lily's arms.

"What the fuck are we doing here, girlie?"

As if sensing the upcoming conflict, the Nightkin's big muscled arms sheltered her from Boone. At least visually.

For his voice kept speaking.

"What game are we playing?"

His words filled the space with sudden silence that only Cass dared to break.

"Not _now_, Red Beret." – she warned, her voice also dripping a dormant form of violence that threatened to surface should the man's train of thought wanted to pursue such a direction. Whiskey always flared Cass' temper.

But Boone wasn't paying attention, the only anger mattering to him being his'.

"And _when_, then?" – he replied to the red-headed woman defiantly – "When the Legion crosses the Colorado and starts stringing everyone up telephone poles?" – his fist found the wooden counter and the sound of the impact made Veronica jump – "You heard what Richards said. They're already here. They first took Cottonwood Cove the last year, then Nipton, and now, in the short span of a month, there they go Nelson and Searchlight. Searchlight! Do you have the slightest idea how heavily guarded was that camp?!"

Six didn't turn around to watch _Zorro's_ expression. She didn't want to _know_. She didn't want to acknowledge… to _believe_ that he…

"And what do you suggest? That we just walk into Nelson and start delivering love in the form of bullets?"

"I didn't see you complaining when you suggested _blowing_ the fucking Fiends off!"

"That's because the Fiends are a bunch of retarded junkies, you moron! They cannot even throw a punch without trampling over their own feet! The Legion Reds', on the other hand, are _trained_, damnit! Trained to counter _gunfire_ with motherfucking _machetes_!"

Six's forehead pressed against Lily's unyielding abs, warnings in the forms of increasingly painful stinging drilling on the left side of her skull. Rex had approached them and whined upon sensing her discomfort.

** _"Your contribution, Birdie dearest… it was a great thing. That _** **place_, those _people_... necessary sacrifices. You should be proud of your accomplishment. Here's to a better future. Here's to Tenpenny Tower!"_**

Here's to the greed of Old America. A toast for the countless unmarked graves the bombs left behind.

"Hey, is a free Wasteland, so why don't we just kind of… vote who wants to launch an attack over Nelson and who doesn't?"

"Raul is right. Unlike what happens with my family in the Brotherhood, we can solve this democratically."

"I agree."

"Yeah, let's do it for the shit and giggles."

"Okay, raise your hand the ones who want to declare open war to Cesar's Legion."

Six didn't need to turn around to know that only Boone had raised his hand.

**"Leo also agrees to chop those people."** – Lily said – **"No, Leo, that doesn't mean that I necessarily agree with you!"**

"Okay, two votes." – Veronica continued – "Now, raise your hand the ones who prefer sticking to Six's plan playing neutral… for now."

Silence.

**"Leo's getting more and more agitated, sweetie."** – Lily whispered to Six – **"I think he can smell the fight coming."**

Despite her mental illness, Lily could be sometimes the most perceptive of their group.

** _"Why, Birdie, what do you think it was at stake besides doing the world a favor by removing that pestilent scab of a town off the map?"_ **

"Five votes. One abstention." – Veronica declared – "Sorry, Boone, but that's democracy for you."

"If it was up to me, I would have voted for playing neutral indefinitely, but one cannot have everything in this life."

"Henceforth, maybe you should abstain _indefinitely_ from voting, old man."

"Boone!"

** _"I assure you those 'innocents', as you put it, are worth ten times as much in death, as they were in life."_ **

"Watch your tongue, _dog_."

"Or what? Are you gonna talk me to death, _albino_? Just the same you did with those Red pansies?"

"_Enough_, Boone!"

** _"You petulant, ungrateful child. I don't see why should I explain _** **myself_ to _you_ regarding these matters."_**

"Can't you see it? Since _he_ got inside, the group's getting shittier and shittier!"

"Jimmy's not to blame that our political ideologies don't align with yours, Boone! Even Cass, who's also NCR, doesn't want to get involved!"

"Yep. I'm not getting paid for playing the suicidal patriot part, you know. At least not while being this sober. Throw some whiskey in the mix, though… and maybe we'll talk."

"The war is at our doorstep and not a single one of you are worried?! What does it take for you to peel off the blindfold and see that the NCR is our only chance at giving those motherfuckers the thumbs down?! Do you really think that _he_ will help any of you when Cesar stomps over the Strip and starts enslaving everyone?!"

"Not _again_ with _that_, Red Beret…"

"Oh, yes, _sniper_, you have discovered me. I am a Legion spy who, besides getting intel from you, is the mastermind behind Cottonwood Cove, Nipton, Searchlight and Nelson. Why, even the Deathclaw invasion at Quarry Junction was my idea."

** _"Oh, Sullivan, Sullivan… You really shouldn't ask questions whose answers are bound to, perhaps, disappoint you."_ **

"This is getting ridiculous, Boone!"

"Is it ridiculous wanting to protect the people from a megalomaniac son of a bitch who fancies himself a _motherfucking Roman dictator_?!"

"Watch it, Beret, NCR's my country too, and I support it. Anyone who says otherwise, I'll feed them my knee. I know which side of the firing line I'm on in the Mojave, just so you know."

"So?!"

"I'm not some blind, flag-saluting do-as-they-will NCR lover. They're family, but let me tell you what family means." – Cass becoming serious was a rare sight, so everybody had shut their mouths, allowing her to continue – "You ever had a brother? Some dumbass younger brother, say, who knocked up the pastor's daughter, can't hold a job, and his home-away is a jail cell?: That's NCR. Their compass is spinning, all the time. They try to put their stake in everything they see, and nobody's dick's that long, not even Long Dick Johnson, and he had a fucking long dick. Thus, the name."

** _"… Other than that, I would have returned much sooner… for there is quite a _** **lot of things_ one can do with _very little time_ on their hands."_**

"Yeah, everybody got that part right, miss Cassidy. _Muchas gracias_." _**(B)**_

"Anyway, as I was saying: the NCR, tries to hold on to everything. They can't, because it's too big for them to get their arms around. They can't guard the roads, they can't put a line of troops around the Mojave... it's just greed that makes the heads back West even try." – huffing, she added – "Do you know why some caravans deal with the Legion now?: because the security. If towns could get the same protection? A lot more tempting than you'd think. A bunch of people would be willing to side with the Legion to not have to worry about Fiends and Boomers and Powder Ganger attacks."

"Miss Cassidy is right. You ever been to Arizona, _Señor_ Boone? 'Cause, before the Legion, it was a nasty place, so thick with raiders you couldn't trade with a town two miles up the road."

"And what does all of this have to do with helping them? You're basically agreeing with me!"

"Look, don't get me wrong, Beret. I wouldn't want the Brotherhood or the Followers or the Vegas Families running the Mojave, all of them are a different kind of fuck-up." – upon hearing unhappy growling coming from Arcade and Veronica, she added – "Sorry, guys, but that's just how things are. And you know I'm dead right on this one. NCR just has some shaping up to do. Maybe Cesar kicking them in the nuts is a nice wake-up call, is all I'm saying."

** _"Of course. I want _** **something_ in return if I win this round."_**

"That's no excuse to forsake them!"

"Look, Beret, if you feel that you should be out there making a difference, go ahead and re-enlist. See what good does that to you."

"I'm not leaving the girlie alone with that creepy son of a…"

**"PUMPKIN!"**

The pain was so great she hadn't noticed just how heavy her limbs felt when her knees gave up and only Lily's strong arms were the difference between being lovingly cradled and falling onto the hard ground.

**"BLOOD! GRANDMA'S LITTLE PUMPKIN IS BLEEDING!"**

So, the coppery tang on her tongue wasn't a hallucination after all…

"Shit!"

Too… too many voices… too different opinions… too much at stake…

"She's having a seizure! Arcade, DO SOMETHING!"

To pick a side again… to play war again…

To start all over… again…

A courier wielding a dead flag.

** _"What are we going to do with you, Courier?"_ **

A small prick on her left arm, a cold wet sensation over her forehead… strong arms around her. Calloused fingers taking each hand, one with the trigger finger as hard as a rock by her right, the other with long, hard palms used to wield knives by her left.

Then, the sweet nothingness only chems can bring into your system.

To dream… about that time Big Bro and Big Sis had taken her to _Sullivan's_ at South Boston to eat the best hot dogs ever on her tenth birthday. A family business. A distant cousin running the local that had given her all the candy she could carry on her small arms.

Months later, Big Bro had been sent to Alaska. Big Sis had been crying in secret every night for a whole month.

The radio and the TV had brought more enrolling campaigns and frivolous advertisements than actual news regarding the soldiers' fate on the front lines. Buy a Mister Handy from General Atomics; buy your family a future with Vault-Tec, "The Vault of the Future"; "Buy War Bonds"; buy a Corvega, with full analog system, Chryslus Motors.

"Enlist. Your country needs you."

_Long live America._

* * *

His milk name, he didn't remember, for he had only acknowledged being called one way after undergoing the ritual of initiation every boy on his tribe must do before becoming a hunter.

But he hadn't turned out to be a common hunter, for his first prey had been a man like himself that had pertained to an enemy tribe.

So they had named him Manhunter.

Manhunter had had only two passions in life: the blood of his enemies and Quill.

She had been their chief's oldest daughter and she had been beautiful, always swaying her tantalizing hips while walking, shaking them furiously around their fires, when their war drums transformed celebrations into dancing and drinking contests, flames reflecting on the pale skin of her slender body, slightly muscled, flexible and proud.

Too proud.

Her first rejection in the form of a hard slap had burned on his cheek for the next couple days, but its psychological impact had burned endlessly inside him, infuriating him to no end, chaining his soul to an obsession he had never gotten over with.

Many women in the tribe had found him attractive, a fine male specimen with way more brawn to answer for than the average warrior. They had sought him and his favors since he had turned up fourteen, but he had been secretly taken by Quill's beauty since they had been children. Shadowing her every move until his body had grown taller than her shadow, eager to embrace her gentle flesh once more as they used to when they had been small, innocent and inseparable, for they had been born the same year in the same month on the same day.

If he had once believed in fate and soulmates, Quill had been the main source of his inspiration.

No matter that, since he had become a man, she seemed to hate him and his hunts.

Each day, he would bring to the opening of her tent the heads of their enemies and she would turn around in disgust, spitting at his feet as blood seemed to follow him everywhere. Or so she had told him.

While not understanding her temperament, he secretly knew that he had the blessing of her father to court her, so he had tried changing tactics.

Since heads seemed to displease her so much, he had attempted bringing her less gruesome trophies like weapons, symbols of his victories.

She still didn't accept them.

Imitating his fellow hunters, he attempted to capture her attentions bringing her animal pelts, fangs and meat.

Those, she had accepted, but her countenance had been sour, vigilant. She hadn't trusted him or his intentions.

Unable to comprehend what was he doing wrong besides demonstrating a woman what a capable husband he could be by providing food and protection to her, he had sought counsel with his closest friend, Black Dusk.

His only friend in truth. The rest of the tribesmen had respected him and his leadership… but they had feared him since he had appeared that very night when he had earned his name after bringing before the hunting fire the head of the Sun Dogs chieftain's son.

"To win a woman's favor isn't the same as winning a battle, my friend." – Black Dusk had told him – "They are but fierce, yet delicate creatures who wish to be adored, cherished and seduced, not conquered."

He had adored and cherished her deeply… but he hadn't had the slightest idea how seduction worked. Women always had been the ones seeking him, not the other way around.

Didn't his feelings suffice? Couldn't she see how much he desired her?

"To desire is not the same as loving." – Black Dusk had said solemnly – "And believe me, my friend: women can tell the difference."

Those words had left him pensive, reflecting upon his failures and the best way to approach this obstacle. He was an inborn tactician, his blood too prideful to accept defeat yet.

So, he had resorted to observing how his fellow tribesmen approached women, learning their tactics, their mannerisms, the words they whispered to their lovers in the still of the night.

For months, he studied and practiced in solitary what he had learned until he found a common pattern he could mimic and follow, the same he would do before engaging an enemy in battle.

And so, armed with this newly discovered skill, he had approached Quill once more.

The months in silence had seemingly cooled her temper and even intrigued her, so the reception he had obtained had been substantially better than any other previous one.

His words had met a raised eyebrow, mute incredulity painted all over her face as she had crossed her arms over her chest protectively.

But she had allowed him to keep coming to her tent, asking him to talk more, for she preferred his voice over his muscles. She said his voice carried the echoes of the desert, deep and haunting.

That discovering had given him advantage enough to wrap her inside complicated webs of words until she had allowed him to kiss her.

The rest had come eventually until she had become his, the tribe shaman being the one who had officed their binding ceremony as the chief by his right had smiled seeing the strongest warrior of the tribe turning out a new son for him, who had only sired daughters.

But that happiness was short-lived when a new threat had arisen from the East, wiping the neighbor tribes from the face of the desert like a boot would do to a bunch of moribund insects.

These warriors that dressed in red were nothing like Manhunter or his men had seen before. They were strong, disciplined and didn't fear death. They killed and conquered in the name of their chieftain; an old man wrapped in a Yao Guai pelt trimmed with gold.

His name was Caesar, and this large tribe of warriors was his Legion.

Then, the call of blood had been stronger than Quill's desperate pleas to move to the West, for her new husband was a proud man who wouldn't flee in dishonor without putting up a fight.

A whole year he and his hunters had chased down their patrols, relying on guerrilla strategy to dwindle their numbers.

But they seem to keep coming endlessly, and the tribe was growing tired and weary.

Just as Quill's rekindled hatred for his bloodlust.

That night, he had returned from a solitary hunt where he had brought down twelve men in red, the covered head of the highest-ranked member brought back to the encampment as a trophy.

Body painted in the tribe's sacred protection spells and face black; he had saluted Black Dusk upon his return. The rest of the tribe lowering their heads at his passing.

At that time, he had thought it a symbol of respect for him, but it had been fear.

It had been _weakness_.

"Good hunting?" – Black Dusk had asked, signaling the severed head with his dark eyes.

"Always." – he had replied arrogantly.

"The Legion march on us." – his friend had informed him, a warning seeping into his otherwise calmed voice – "The chieftain says they will be here in days."

"Good." – had been, once again, his arrogant answer – "Let them come."

When he had gotten inside his tent, where his wife and a friend of hers had been sewing, he had bided the other woman to leave as the severed head had been dropped at Quill's feet.

Once they had been alone, she, dutiful wife, had cleaned his face from blood and grime, but when he had grabbed her to make her his once more, he had gone back in time when she had slapped him, cursed him in the tongue of her mother, a New Mexican tribeswoman who spoke Navajo.

"Speak properly!" – he had demanded, earning yet another slap. He had had to contain the murderous instinct that had come over him to strangle her. He was her husband, she owed him respect!

"You stink of blood." – she had spitted, baring teeth in disgust.

That night, she had danced around the fire with the war drums, and he had ached for her touch, refusing inebriation at the hands of their distilled _pulque_, knowing very well how his wife detested when he arrived drunk at their tent.

Once the nightly feast had concluded, halfway his tent he had seen the chief's tepee seeping smoke, a symbol of important negotiations with other tribes.

The blood had frozen in his veins.

"Wait!" – Black Dusk had warned him upon seeing his expression – "This is the way it must be."

But he had heeded no reason and had burst inside the tepee to watch, livid with incredulity, how the shaman, the chief and the elders were kneeling before a Legion emissary, not even Caesar himself!

The agent - a _Frumentarius_, he had learned later – had received him uptight and smug, looking down on him despite Manhunter being a good head taller than him.

He had ordered him to render unto Caesar and kiss the seal of their Lord to show his fealty.

Manhunter had beaten his skull down to a pulp.

And then…

Coming back from the darkest depths of his memories, the present hit him hard when a subordinate called for him, asking permission to enter his tent.

For he made a clear distinction between "his subordinate" and "one of his men".

For he had men no more. Only men that followed his orders. But not his, not men he could call his _brethren_. Not anymore.

"_Ave, Primus Legatus _Lanius, sir, we have news regarding two female agents of the Great Whore infiltrating our encampment by night." – the legionary informed, terse and formal, evidently intimidated just by being in his presence – "Our explorers have spotted their nest up the mountains. Your orders?"

Lanius. That was how he was named after Manhunter had died that night at the hands of those he once had trusted. A new name for the same bloodlust.

Lanius the Butcher. Lanius, Terror of the East.

Lanius the Monster.

Not bothering to turn around to address the legionary, the monster of a man the Legion had turned him into, spoke.

**"Send a _contubernium_ to deal with them."** – he replied, uninterested, his voice echoing inside the golden helmet that hid the sins and weakness of his late tribe: the Hidebarks. Sins weaved in the canvas of his flesh – **"If possible, capture them alive and bring them to my tent." **\- women were of no concern to him. Women were weak creatures that only made easy prey of weaker men… but the Great Whore was a dangerous one, someone he’ll do well not to underestimate – **"If not, bring me their heads instead."**

"Yes, sir. _Vale_." – the man nodded enthusiastically, leaving him alone once more with his thoughts.

After all, thoughts were the only thing that his previous life had left him.

* * *

_She was floating in water. Deep blue, endless ocean near the shores of Boston, opening its salty embrace just for her, cradling her limp form in a comfortable cold caress, sirens weaving songs for her to hear from deep below._

_But there was a distinct song that stood out above the others, soft and smooth like silk._

"Are you happy now, _sniper_? Does this outcome sit well with your _righteous_ ways, demanding _retribution_ for the crime of not joining the NCR's cause? Hmmm?"

_It sounded nice… despite knowing that sirens were widely known for their deceiving ways, luring seamen to perdition with the power of their voices._

"I can still obtain my _retribution_ by smashing my fist on your smug face, _ratboy_."

"You two! Cut the crap for once, okay? I'm sick of listening to your endless bitching. It's giving me a fucking headache too, urgh."

"Cass' right. We're gonna solve nothing fighting among us, as this demonstrates."

_Was she a too daring fisherwoman? Daring to swim along with deceiving sirens, silent sharks, mythical Krakens and the Biblical Leviathan?_

"Okay, let's talk then about Arcade leaving the group and what a fucking _coincidence_ that it has happened when the royal ass here decided to join."

_She didn't know sea creatures could spit and cough. Less even laugh._

"Shit, Beret, warn me before dropping such bombs or the whiskey will not last me very much at this pace. _'Royal ass'_, that was _fucking golden_."

"Well, _thank you_, miss Cassidy. _Truly_."

"Look, Tribal Boy… I like you, but you can be a pain in the ass sometimes. No offense."

"None taken since I suspect there's a cocktail of whiskey and _monthly hormones_ doing the talk."

"Jimmy, please!"

_She wished those quarreling creatures would stop baring fangs to each other and, instead, joined her to play._

"The reasons behind my… departure has nothing to do with _Zorro Salvaje_. I can assure you that much, Boone. You have no idea what the Enclave did to her."

_Yet another voice… a beautiful pink dolphin that didn't belong on salty water, his environment to survive the Amazonian basin rivers, too far away from Boston._

"Arcade…"

"No, let me say it, Veronica. This is not about some convoluted plan involving malicious advice, Boone; this is about what my great-great-grandfather helped to build, being one of the many sponsors behind atrocities committed by Vault-Tec but paid in blood by human greed. This is about a girl who was_ kidnapped,_ _tortured_ and _experimented on_ along many other children in the hopes of making a sort of cavalry that would aid the Enclave in their re-conquering of America after the bombs fell. This level of human sickness can only match the Concentration Camps during the Second World War; and believe me, _those_ were already bad enough. The records are blood-curdling."

_She found the creature intelligent, cute and huggable to no end… but she preferred to deal with sharks and sirens who would either bite or drown her. But she already knew that, she knew what to expect._

"They WHAT?!"

_Knowledge was bitter and the dolphin's skin wasn't as soft as she had expected._

"Now that you know… maybe you'll understand why I was hesitant about sharing things about me that went beyond my life as a Follower of the Apocalypse. I… knew some of the things they did, but after talking with Henry I see why the Enclave was so hated among, practically, the rest of the Wasteland. We were told by our elders to never disclose our origins for a reason."

_If only she could swim forever until she developed gills as well…_

"But… she cannot possibly blame you for that, Arcade! You aren't your… ancestors!"

_But she wasn't a sea creature._

"I think, despite everything, she doesn't. She's a good girl, Veronica, but even good girls cannot repress what they feel. It's human to have fear."

_So, she has to swim back to the shore… where the colorful umbrellas, towels and beach bars were now faded, broken memories of a two-hundred-year past._

"And I think this is for the better. Not for me, but _for her_."

_So, the blue waters turned glowing, irradiated waves of dirtiness as the landscape changed along with its flora, its fauna and its inhabitants._

_But she hadn't changed. Just like the war that had brought her here._

Six opened her eyes and stared at Lily's countenance as the supermutant was the one holding her.

**"Pumpkin!"** \- the giant grandma exclaimed, hoisting her form from her lap to give her a careful embrace, delicate as she could be sometimes.

Six returned the embrace weakly, her nostrils feeling funny until she took one hand to them and discovered traces of congealed blood.

Nasal hemorrhage… she had never experienced something like that during one of her migraines…

"Hey! She's awake!"

Once Lily put her on a couch near the entrance, Six watched her companions gathering around her, feeling like a prophetess ready to share her visions, all of them bearing more or less the same worried expression.

At least they could agree on this one.

"We're departing to the 188 upon dawn." – she announced, noticing the artificial lights were still on – "We're picking Clay from there and heading back to New Vegas."

Nobody dared to question a thing.

* * *

"You tell her."

Walking side by side, two dark-skinned, tall, muscled figures silhouetted against the dawn sky. Their armored hands occupied with long spears, their covered hips full of knives, their sweaty backs carrying bows and arrows made of wood, their feminine breasts tightly bandaged so they wouldn't interfere with their aim.

"No, it's your turn. I was the one giving her the report from our previous mission."

Naked feet carried the sand of the desert on their hard soles, bronzed faces carried white warpaint shaped after their Lady's snakes, strong jaws carried tension as they kept arguing over duties.

"Nuh-uh. Last time she was brought bad news, she almost tore off the head of the poor unlucky bastard."

Crafted out the same mold, both women were nearly indistinguishable. Their bodies and cropped hairstyles identical, their voices matching, their strength uniform, their appetites equivalent.

They shared blood, weapons, supplies, rank and lovers. They had shared everything since they could even remember, so they – logically – had kept doing it either under the care of their birth tribe, the Twin Mothers, now following orders as their Lady's Amazons. Bighorners' riders, coyotes' tamers.

"But at that time, the messenger was male. You know how incredibly stupid men can be. He surely did something to displease her."

"… Right."

When they neared camp - a pre-War military facility where concrete walls were tall and menacing, twisted irons emerging from the highest point like teeth out of the gums of an abyssal creature - they were brought to a stop when the doorkeeper asked for their password.

_"Some call her Juno, others Bellona of the Battles, and Her Daughters hail Her on the sacred name they were taught by the Dark Mother Herself."_ – the twins recited solemnly, earning entrance to their Main Headquarters, the Infinite City of Darkness and Light them, Lady's Daughters, revered in the name of Ouroboros, The Serpent That Hungers Endlessly.

Neatly divided into two very distinguishable sectors separating men and women, upon entrance the twins hailed their Sisters on the right at the Daughters' Camp, and directed salacious looks on the left at the Hounds' Camp.

They were mostly the same fucking material the twin sisters had quickly tired of throughout the years since the day they were named Amazons: male Vipers, free men under their Lady's rule, spouses' material should they so choose.

That was why the two of them tended to favor male slaves.

They were always plentiful and every now and then, more were captured to add on the novelty flavor, thus more fucking material.

Fucking material sculpted under The Bull's regimen: hard to break, hard to tame, easy to dispose of should they proved recalcitrant and troublesome over time.

Perfect lovers for strong women unafraid of their threats and completely immune to their insults. You don't need brute strength to subdue a man.

That was a skill their Lady had taught them well.

Upon reaching the plaza, the sisters paid their respects before continuing onwards, kneeling before the big stone pedestal that once had supported a pre-War memorial for the fallen, now redesigned into a monument made of crafted junk metal into the shape of three women surrounded by snakes, all of them representing their Lady: the Mistress of the Crossroads, _Trimorphe_.

_"War… war never changes."_ – She had preached to Her Daughters once – _"But women do, through the roads they walk. Through the roads that shape them. Mine was an unending road of loneliness, pain and loss until Diana gave me purpose again, reminded me who I truly was and the role that the road had prepared me to fulfill: to ascend to godhood and claim the head of the faithless to myself, the same Perseus did with Medusa. And Caesar is my gorgon to conquer."_

All escaped survivors from tribes wiped or assimilated under The Bull's hooves, the Lady and Her Daughters shared the same hatred for the Western conqueror that had destroyed their homes and families. One by one, their Lady had found them, gave them shelter, food and protection and them, in exchange, were molded into war machines whose pain fueled their strength against the Red Threat, their bitterness making them wiser, cleverer, _crueler_.

Her Daughters moved in the night – their element. Cloaked in darkness and deceit, they were experts at infiltration into legionaries' tents, stealing supplies and ruining their armors and weaponry with acid, stealing secrets from their drugged lips, stealing seed strong enough for them to give birth to stronger warriors that would surpass their fathers. Stealing blood and breath from those they deemed undeserving of life.

_Succubi_, they called them in whispers, too ashamed to inform their Caesar of these nightly transgressions, allowing women to dominate and mount them like beasts, a payback from those they had once possessed without consent. For their missing mothers, sisters and daughters; those the men in red had kidnapped, raped and murdered.

From one of such missions the twins were coming back, exchanging nervous glances as their feet took them upstairs the staggered pyramid - the old military base reshaped into one out bits and pieces of dead combat aircraft – to inform their Lady of their recent discoverings.

Their Mistress resided at the top of the pyramid, inside a den of cold darkness, sitting atop her own throne made from the machetes of her fallen enemies, Queen of her own Underworld.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, they presented themselves before the Herbs Witch Master, the one who provided the Daughters and Hounds of herbal remedies, purgatives, salves and poisons. She was also their Lady's ear.

"Coming back so soon?" – the older woman asked, her eyes sunken, her nimble hands bearing discolorations due to her profession – "We weren't expecting you for another three nights."

The healer had this unnerving habit of disguising questions behind apparent normal chatting. The sisters knew this and frowned in unison.

"We were ambushed." – one of them finally said – "A full _contubernium_. We weren't able to take any prisoners, but the _Decanus_ was a rookie and his men no more than boys freshly out of training. They were sent _specifically_ to deal with us, but they made the mistake of underestimating our strength." – the last sentence was delivered with a hint of smugness that made the witch doctor squint her mismatched eyes, one light brown, the other emerald green.

"You said you got your hands on a full group of boys and you weren't able to take any prisoners…" – she repeated, slowly – "She isn't going to be very pleased. Do you bring their ears at least?"

The other sister nodded, untying a cord from the utility backpack and showing the healer their pickings. Nine in total.

"Very well, I'll announce Her your presence here. Wait." – and then, she disappeared inside the cold den, leaving two very nervous women outside for a few minutes that felt like hours until she emerged from inside and signaled them to go inside.

Once the door was closed behind them, an icy gloom enveloped their now shivering bodies. Several pairs of luminous eyes opened upon their entrance, soft hissing a prelude on their Lady's words.

"Do approach, my Daughters." – a feminine, chilling-to-the-bone voice found their ears as the ghost of a hand emerged from the dark to signal them to get closer, nails sharp as claws – "Scylla and Charybdis… my Witches whisper your names in funeral songs and visions of blood. They say tonight you killed sons, not fathers."

"My Lady!" – the twins exclaimed, kneeling in front of the woman they saw as a deity, arms crossed over their chests in penance and respect, Scylla being the one who kept talking – "We did. That, we did with great anguish in our hearts." – and then, Charybdis offered the cord with their offerings, ears for making the recognition easier for many mothers in search of their kidnapped sons. A measly consolation for years in the dark, an end to a tortuous search.

Those, every Daughter knew they couldn't bed, drug or kill during their nightly infiltrations. Under the age of twenty-one, legionaries were _sons_, maybe lost children for aging mothers withering in hopeless wait.

If they captured them, they were brought onto re-insertion programs, kept tightly monitored, asking women to recognize those boys in case they were theirs. It was very rare that a son was found, but each time had been an experience both beautiful and frightening for both parts, as Caesar's teachings were hard to erase from teenagers who one minute would wail in grief and denial… and become violent the next. Then, the mothers were too impatient and too blinded by their love to believe that their once sweet boys were very capable of strangling them in their sleep in the name of their Lord and honor. It had happened before, and the boys in question had killed themselves shortly after.

But there were others who had submitted to their Lady, joining the Hounds' ranks, honoring their mothers and sisters to their last breath.

Even in desperate times, there was still room for hope.

Taking the offering from Charybdis' hands, the self-proclaimed goddess swept her clawed thumbs over the ears.

"Very well." – she acquiesced – "They will be passed onto the mothers, see if one of these are theirs." – after that, her right hand caressed something curled on her lap, her own brand of children. The scaly tail dangling by one of her throne's armrest rattled happily – "Now, onto more pressing matters: I have been informed that this group was expecting you, two of my best infiltrating agents. Is that true?"

Scylla and Charybdis exchanged a nervous glance between them, shadowy forms sliding and hissing at their feet.

"Apparently, yes." – Scylla replied – "They fought with fear in their eyes, unwilling to submit and unwilling to flee despite the many opportunities we gave them." – she paused and added in a lower voice – "We suspect that the punishment they would have faced if they returned empty-handed to their camp would have been worse than death."

The goddess pinched her chin, pensively. Her sharp features behind her unique war paint stern. Red, blue and violet long dreadlocks covering her soft breasts, ribs protruding from emaciated, deadly pale skin. Eyes burning as cold fire as she spoke again.

"So, the Butcher is getting impatient." – she mused, bright yellow and lavender lips smiling with purple-tinted teeth – "That is good despite that he's proving less a challenge that the _Malpais_ would surely have been. Oh, well…" – shrugging, she added – "I am sending you two to New Canaan as it seems the Butcher's men have already a detailed description of your aspect and schedules. Your new mission will be observing the moves the Burned Man plays there. Do not confront him or his men, just shadow him, nothing more." – she inhaled – "Also, try to negotiate an alliance with The Sorrows. Promise them whatever you deem best as long as they support us in the coming battle with the Legion. Their women have proven to be as strong and resilient as their men." – after that, she waved her hand, the bundle over her lap rearing its reptilian head to hiss at them – "Go, enjoy a few days of stay. Rest, wash the grime from your bodies, resupply yourselves and depart, with my blessing."

Once the twins closed the door after themselves, the mortal goddess took the ear cord again and stared at it reflectively.

She could feel it, the restlessness in her children, the very creatures that had always welcomed her in her direst hour when the desert had almost driven her to the brink of madness, their dual nature – hot and cold-blooded – a product of lethal splicing, creatures of the night just like her.

They smell the battle in the air, the blood of nineteen tribes the Butcher had stomped over in the name of a madman. The last five years had been Hell on Earth repelling his ambushes while extracting slaves from his camps to swell the Hounds' and Daughters' numbers.

The man was a beast, not a single woman brought to his tent remained alive, gruesomely disfigured after days of abuse and discarded like garbage once they died.

But nothing could compare to the atrocities the _Malpais Legatus_ had brought upon the tribes in Arizona and Utah many years before.

She would know, she had witnessed it.

And, because of that, this Butcher didn't elicit the same reaction the others had awakened in her before. That very feeling that had been her sole companion throughout the years: need for retribution.

The _Malpais Legatus_ "Scourge of Arizona", _Summus_ Praetorian Cornelius "The Impaler", and _Summus_ Frumentarius Callidus Anguis "Snaketongue".

And Edward Sallow, self-proclaimed Caesar, _Imperator_ of a Legion he had built out of the blood and tears of now eighty-seven tribes.

He will pay. Oh, yes, he will pay, along with his trusted men when she will march upon the embers of his dying Empire bringing the night with her, exacting revenge from what they took from her.

And she will smile a triumphant smile when she will reveal herself to him, telling him exactly why as her hand would claw its way inside his ribcage, extracting his black heart for him to see.

He will know the unbridled fury of the woman now known as… Hecate.

* * *

The Eastern entrance to the Freeside saluted them at the brink of twilight the second day they had left Novac behind.

A tired air hung around the group, as if defeat was their inescapable fate once those doors would open for them.

The only one whose face remained calmed despite the general low spirits was the child they had picked up at the 188 Trading Post.

"I thought I'd be seeing you again, Courier Six." – the nine-year-old had announced solemnly when she had approached him. Curiously, his belongings had been carefully packaged as if he was moving. She had asked him this and his response had flabbergasted her – "Oh, I knew about your arrival and the offer you carry with you for me. I also know that the place you intend to bring me on has lots of thoughts on it, reminiscences of its owner, who isn't dead but also, he isn't completely alive. A man who has traveled through time, just like you."

She hadn't noticed the tears going down her cheeks until one of them had landed on her collarbone.

Upon seeing this, Clay had taken her hand between his'.

"It wasn't my intention to make you cry." – he had told her soothingly. A child consoling another child – "Just the same it isn't your intention to flinch every time you look at me. For I remind you of those you were forced to shoot when you were abducted by the men with the Stars and Stripes."

Clay was of Chinese ancestry, the purest breed Six had ever seen in all these years awake in a world that wasn't hers. Chinese descendants were a rare sight in the American Wasteland.

The military had made sure those were, along with the Russians, the first being massacred during the Purge. Making even the American child soldiers participate in it.

It was either that or being branded as a traitor Communist.

"I don't need to take off my medicine to see how much this has weighted upon your soul all these years. There's loss in your eyes." – he had continued, his smaller hands making circular moves on hers, calming the screams she sometimes thought she could hear. Screams of her victims, screams of her dead companions, screams of her men, screams of Mandy when they had separated them. Screams from herself when they had shown them in the Vault the footage of the bombs falling – "And I don't need to make a forecast to know that there's healing and light waiting for you with those you love. Just the same they can heal by your side… if you let them in, that is. Trust is a thing that works both ways, never only one."

She had munched on those words over and over again meanwhile their steps were taking them closer to New Vegas.

Closer to the Old Mormon Fort to leave Arcade behind.

Was she, as _Zorro_ had implied before, making a mistake?

Grinding teeth the instant the rusty gates opened for them, Six braved the first step. And the rest followed her.

But the moment all of them had gotten inside, an unusual silence had received them.

The children who usually played in front of _Mick & Ralph's_ were nowhere to be seen and the aforementioned establishment was closed. No sight of the drug dealer Dixon selling his junk in a corner or any of his unlucky "clients".

Even the ghoul beggar who usually sold tips at the door of the destroyed building he used as a house, was absent.

"Awfully quiet, isn't it?" – Cass commented, her eyes sweeping empty streets nervously, her hands too ready to grab her rifle.

Not a single breeze but dying rays of scorching sun seemed to illuminate the rundown buildings, intervals of red and violet playing from the sky over dirty surfaces, giving a false illusion of fantasy to the deserted environment.

Gulping down a bad feeling like the providential pill, Six pushed onwards, wishing for the child crier of _Mick & Ralph's_ to be at the corner to welcome them, or the two boys who pursued rats for food. Or even that angry bearded ghoul who was too self-conscious of his lazy eye for his own good.

But, as they reached The King's _School of Impersonation_ and not even the gang bouncers were outside, she started to sweat cold.

"I don't like this." – Boone said, reaching for his rifle – "Either some weird shit is going on or this is a trap." – making a gesture with his right hand, he added – "Group formation. Now."

Six sent a discreet look to _Zorro_, who was equally tense as his electric eyes were searching around for possible traps or mines around the usual Freeside litter.

They reached the next corner near the Old Mormon Fort.

* * *

_They said that time is supposed to heal you… two hundred and five years was what he got._

_And the dreams just kept happening, reminiscences of an old life he hadn't let go._

_He simply couldn't. His contract bound to chase every moment he was awake._

_She had arrived at the seedy bar that bastard of Ahzrukhal had chained him to for the last three decades. She had tried to talk with him, but he was having none of it. She then had asked the corrupted bartender to cough up his contract for a handful of caps and… that had been the last mistake Ahzrukhal had made._

_Under the girl's employment, things were shining promising, her dad a moral compass for her to become the best version of herself._

_But then, her dad had died, and she had started walking that dark path of going under he had known so well. Ahzrukhal had been corrupted right from the start, but he had had other employers… good people turning out bad._

_And the girl had turned out to be the worst nightmare the Capitol Wasteland could have asked for._

_But her lover was even worse._

_One of those secluded factions that still held some degree of technological advancements had given him birth. Educated enough to put up a false semblance of civility and impeccable good manners, that man was evil incarnate._

_And the girl had been attracted to his embrace like a moth to the flame, willing to burn in Hell as long as he would hold her and never let go._

_And then, the other girl._

_That one reminded him of his early days with the blonde teenager who had been all smiles and sunshine. Too innocent, too easily manipulated._

_The evil bastard had turned her into a hollow case, attempting to force out of her that "special training" her Vault records had promised, to awake the dormant killer in her._

_He had done it too well, the unexpected outcome of having an agent that could turn out a Wildcard any time soon had, finally, backfired him._

_The Platinum Chip issue had been one of that man's greatest plans to gain even more leverage with the Republicans. His ambition knowing no bounds._

_But then, this small girl had decided to ignore her orders and had gone rogue._

_The evil bastard wanted her alive._

_But he wasn't going to give him that satisfaction._

_True that his orders said that he ought to capture her… but he couldn't bring himself to sell that poor soul, a true fellow countrywoman, back again to the hands of her cruel master._

_He would free her… or she would free him._

_And nothing else mattered anymore right now._

* * *

Up turning the Fort corner, Six suddenly felt that her entire world had gone to a stop, pretty much when her brain was under the V.A.T.S. system’s influence.

She saw him before the others. Even before Rex could smell him.

Crouched behind the Fort’s wall, he had been waiting for her. He had even bothered to announce his presence by wiping any obstacle - human or not - from the streets.

Armed with a menacing grenade launcher, he stepped out his hidden spot walking calmly with the gun at his hip towards her, his milky gaze tired but deadly focused.

He had been the best of his promotion, a soldier under Constantine Chase’s direct command in Alaska. One of the few able to beat the Virtual Simulator to the very last consequences.

And she knew all of this because he had told her once.

He was a killing machine, a soldier whose unique condition allowed him to ignore pain, sleep, fatigue, hunger and thirst.

And he had been sent to _terminate_ her.

She inhaled, hearing _Zorro’s_ voice in the background shouting something her brain didn’t process.

She recalled his name. And she breathed it, ready to pay the ferryman her fee to transport her down the Styx.

“Charon.”

And then, everything exploded around her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LATIN:
> 
> (1) - "Even in Arcadia was I, too." (Arcadia was used in Peloponnese to symbolize Utopia).  
(2) - "Goodbye, madam."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> SPANISH:
> 
> (A) - "Thank you, my pretty little girl."  
(B) - "Thank you very much."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: [Insert here your Boss Battle Music of choice]
> 
> Looongest chapter ever. Finally, I've gotten our group where I wanted them. Cliffhanger?: yep. Some good ol' action in the next chapter?: definitely.
> 
> This has been a dramatic chapter above everything else. Van Buren Content knocking on our door for real, guys :D
> 
> And, for those curious as for why I have depicted Lanius so... human, go to YouTube and search "Lanius". There's an amazing short film about him that have inspired his part in this chapter (some things, I've written them practically to the letter xD).
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying the ride and blah, blah, blah. I've already written too much, so is up time to bid all of you Vale... until the next update ;)


	17. Loco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains sexual references that may not agree with everybody, strong racial hatred, strong ideology hatred, the use of radioactivity as a weapon, violence, the use of Politics as a war weapon, mentions of genocide and war-related PTSD.
> 
> Not trying to indoctrinate/incite hatred between ethnic groups, ideologies and/or Governments. This story is a tough cookie to eat, yes, but it is FICTION. Read it for what it is and nothing more.

* * *

Ears beeping, heart thrumming wildly on her throat, Six barely registered the dust and rubble raining over her head as her small fists clung for dear life onto the medic overalls pertaining to the person who had tackled her small form out the trajectory of the grenade.

She was trembling. Arcade was trembling. One of his arms was around her, attempting to nestle protectively her smaller form onto his larger one.

The other wielded his plasma pistol in front of him as the cloud of dust dissipated and Charon's gigantic form emerged from it.

The corroded asphalt around the impact area signaled the ammunition of his grenade launcher to be the most lethal possible: 40mm plasma-based.

Arcade shot. The hole he embedded onto the metal armor did nothing to slow the giant necrotic.

Arcade shot again, his steps taking his and Six's form backward. He hit target again.

The stench of charred flesh was pungent and the small wave of smoke coming from the hole was real… but the nightmarish ghoul kept walking as if was nothing, loaded his gun and shoot again, forcing Arcade to push his' and Six's forms aside again.

Rolling onto searing asphalt, the ground trembled beneath them and a wave of heat washed over them, rendering trails of small blisters on the exposed parts of their skin when a booming battle cry cut through the air as Lily's bulking form charged against the armored ghoul, who was almost as tall as her.

The deafening clash of metal against metal met amidst a rain of luminous sparks and Six braced herself when the supermutant made a sound of incredulity before being violently thrown against a nearby wall from one of the rundown buildings that quickly collapsed over her.

Six bit the inner walls of her mouth, preventing herself from screaming, but unable to contain the stream of salty tears that came in response.

She recalled how Laura used to boast about her bodyguard's uncanny ability hunting mutants out in the Wastes. Together, they had wiped out entire encampments.

"GIRLIE!"

Six had never heard Boone's voice convey so much anguish in a single word.

Two shots to the head later, a small trail of blood, corroded tissue already knitting itself under battered rotting skin.

The giant turned around, loaded a second time and fired to the voice's general direction.

_BOOM._

The Geiger Counter started detecting the first waves of radiation, the temperature around rising several degrees. Invisible ripples undulating in the violet air ascending from the ground to blinding skies, giving Six a faux sensation of blurry vision.

And the silence… the earth trembling beneath Arcade and her. Sweaty palms seeking each other, drenched foreheads crevicing, thinking full-speed for a desperate plan to form.

_"¡Chavo! ¡CHAVO!"_ – she heard Raul's heartbreaking plea in the distance, his voice shaking the same his skeletal arms did around the fallen form of his savior, who had interposed his body between the old necrotic and the plasma explosion. The helmet of his Riot Gear discarded aside along his backpack, nuclear white waves of hair dirtied with rubble and blood – _"Dios mío… __¡Oh, Dios, DIOS!"_ – the ghoul wailed – _"¡Despierta, chavo, DESPIERTA!" __**(1)**_

Six had to bit her lip with such force to impede screaming that she drew blood.

Arcade's trembling hands dragged her back on her two feet, his otherwise gentle hands now clawing at her flesh beneath military fatigues, pushing her to the shadows between buildings, seeking cover.

Six embraced Arcade's form the same the medic's arms engulfed hers, and indeterminate time passed with more gunfire and explosions coming from everywhere until both saw the gigantic silhouette casting a long shadow near them and Arcade used his body to shield her from another blast that threw a pile of bricks over them.

"ARCADE!" – she cried when she felt his weight crashing over hers, his eyes closed mere inches over hers, a trail of blood sliding from the back of his head, pooling over one of his spectacles' lens.

* * *

_Upon reaching the Freeside, Vulpes hadn't been sure what to expect._

_One of those teary, incredibly awkward and unnecessary farewells that would likely have met resistance coming from some members of the group – Becky most prominently – and a bit of bitching from the sniper? Sure._

_Or maybe a last-minute change of heart with Sullivan and the doctor making up and hugging and all that sappy stuff that, to the Master Frumentarius, was equally as awkward and unnecessary as the former option._

_Maybe the two combined? Perhaps. After all, these people were crazy, so he wasn't ruling out possible outcomes. He had earphones and music to evade himself until they reached the Lucky 38, and Franz Liszt now was an infinitely more desirable option rather than deal with drama that had nothing to do with him. Doctor or not, Vulpes was stuck with Sullivan and her motley crew until he figured out how to… let's say,_ put her on the right track.

_Maybe, once the doctor issue would be over, - and providing it ended as bad as he had anticipated it would - she would feel a bit distraught. And maybe she could use a bit of distraction._

_He could work out something. She liked games, maybe inviting her over to that Recreative establishment on the Freeside would be a good idea, nudging her gently to lose the sniper and the rest so they wouldn't_ 'bother her with their disagreements'.

_Bringing the dog along would be a good idea as well, using it as an excuse for protection so they wouldn't be followed. Plus, the animal didn't talk but it could add to the 'comforting act' he was already planning to put on her very subtly. If he managed to get her where he wanted, she will end spilling the beans about everything, from her deepest insecurities to that mysterious man from the Capitol that seemed to terrify her so much._

_He would play his cards carefully: first, the unassuming friend move; then, the psychoanalyst play… and, finally, the knight in shining armor coming to the rescue offering her a better alternative than playing errand girl for – most likely – a two-hundred-year-old ghoul behind a computer screen seeking nothing but perpetuate Old-World vices through gambling and whoring, having learned nothing from how the world had gone to Hell perpetuating the society of Capitalism._

_From that point on forward, maybe he could sell his Lord's cause as the only viable alternative, feeding her on the idea of the Synthesis coming out the Legion fusing with the NCR._

_And there's no better seller than the one who believes in the product he sells._

_For Vulpes believed in what he was going to confide to her. His Lord's vision._

_He felt confident in his abilities and trusted Sullivan to be intelligent enough to reason all of this. She'll see what he saw. He was sure of that._

_And then, maybe they could…_

_"Awfully quiet, isn't it?"_

_His bubble had burst violently when he acknowledged the state in which the streets where._

_Not a soul, not a sound… and the light, strange and chameleonic, an ideal setting for something nasty about to happen._

_Freeside, no matter the hour, was NEVER this quiet even at late-night. Too many people resided here, it was virtually_ impossible _to have it this deserted by dusk, where_ _The Atomic Wrangler usually bustled with an endless chain of clients of all varieties._

_Vulpes had spied several pairs of eyes in-between closed blinds and the cover the rundown buildings offered for illicit activities._

_They had been observed, and everybody had been locked up inside their homes._

_They had_ feared _something._

_And that very something he had learned very soon when, _ex umbra in solem_, indeed, a twisted, rotten version of Lanius had stepped out armed with forbidden technology, bearing allegiance to no gods, tainted by the flames of the Apocalypse. No Lord to sustain his own lie anymore, no Master to hold his leash any longer._

_No fealty to contain his madness._

_This Lanius of the Old World had shot his challenge, leaving corroding radiation behind._

_Vulpes had tackled the first immediate body he had had near; the hit had been merciless._

_In the end, the Butcher had finally come to collect his rat's hide._

_"¡CHAVO!"_

Grappling onto the hands those gods he didn't believe in offered him, he forced his consciousness to return back to the surface.

And he felt like vomiting.

Sight unfocused, a coppery tang on his mouth and the worst headache he had had in ages, Vulpes grasped Raul's bony shoulders, breathing for dear life.

_"Rifle…"_ – he demanded as the ghoul forced his near-limp form to sit. And he demanded it in Spanish.

Raul didn't waste any time putting the gun between his arms, both of them relying on the other for support as they aimed for the towering giant paces ahead, Vulpes with _Paciencia_, Raul with his twin revolvers.

_"Aguanta vara, chavo."_ – the ghoul said – _"A la de tres. Una… dos…"_

_"¡TRES!"_ _**(2) **_– they exclaimed in unison, shooting the menace in the arms, aiming to cripple his marksmanship.

Blood poured from the holes their shots created on monstrous biceps, but the redhead menace limited himself to load again and aim to them.

_"Hijo de la chingada…"_ _**(3) **_– Raul breathed before Vulpes rounded his waist with one arm and rolled their combined weights aside. The impact radius sent a wave of heat that made parts of their skin boil.

And then, the Fox howled; the only war cry his dead tribe had taught to all of their pups.

Warriors. _Survivors_.

And his call was answered.

* * *

Gabban wasn't having a good day. At all.

Besides the permanent ban out the Strip over the majority of their agents, forcing them to wait outside for orders to arrive, living in the Freeside wasn't any picnic these days.

Apparently, the NCR had much to answer for, for they had been the ones allowing that monster freedom of movement throughout New Vegas.

The first time he had seen the individual had been getting out the big door like he owned the place, dressed like a merc and being a ghoul commanding attention for someone getting out the Strip for the first time, his type very unlikely to be allowed inside a den of vice where you gotta be a soldier protected by the Republic's treaty, a friend of The King or a very wealthy motherfucker.

And this monster of a ghoul was none of the above.

The Frumentarii's web of spies had no records on him, nobody had seen him neither on the Westside, nor on the Freeside prior to his entrance on the Strip.

So, forcefully, he had to have used the monorail to get inside.

The very instant he had appeared by the big door a few days ago, the streets had been, gradually, losing transient activity.

First, the pickpockets, robbers and all manner of petty criminals had been completely erased from every dark corner of Fremont Street.

Then, as if he were a sort of bearer of a deathly plague, he had extended his influence to the rest of Freeside.

Gabban had sent one of his agents to shadow his movements, they had found him the next day hanging upside down by the ankles from a lamppost, next to Dixon's – the local drug dealer - dead body.

Knowing that attacking him in retaliation would do no good, Gabban instead had sought the source of information that ghoul vagabond, Rotface, provided for a small fee.

"Can't say I know much about the guy." – the beggar had said after being paid a hefty sum for loosing up his rotten lips – "He came over the other day, asked a few questions he paid handsomely about the local layout and the rumors concerning Courier Six." – shrugging, he had added – "I wouldn't mess with him if I were you. He's polite enough, but he also got _that_ look. You know? The kind you find in fellas that have nothing left to lose. Those are the ones you should watch yourself around."

Gabban had witnessed this to be true the next coming days, when a large group of Kings had been found dead near the old Cerulean Robotics edifice. And the NCR – those the Locals called _'Squatters'_ – was a no-show.

Emboldened by the predictable absence of the rest of the Kings, the only semblance of law around these parts, minor gangs had started to rear their heads to be promptly cut before they started blooming.

Then the beggars. Then the homeless people around the bonfires by night.

Stores started to close earlier than usual, mothers wouldn't allow their children to set a foot outside their homes and, soon, Freeside had found itself in less than a week submerged in a state of alarm.

And all owed to the work and grace of one single man.

It was frightening. Even for them, that were Legion.

And now, this: the very instant that monster had detected the presence of the Courier's group entering through the Eastern Gate, Hell had unleashed.

And Vulpes was among those people.

After watching in horror how the towering ghoul had bested the supermutant that accompanied the Courier with little effort, Gabban had known with pristine clarity that none of them would survive this fight.

His training as a Second-In-Command prevented him to put his men's lives on unnecessary risk, but the blood in his veins had frozen the very instant his brother, a solitary fox by nature, had howled in the way of their people.

A desperate call for help.

So, contravening training and common sense, Gabban's voice had been dead steady when he had sent Cassius to ensure the Courier's safety while he had taken Ignatius, Olivian and Titus to secure Vulpes.

Then, the moment they saw the Master Frumentarius rolling aside with the other ghoul in his arms, they waited until the pair sought cover behind a wall to counter the monster's plasma grenades with gunfire and seized the opportunity by immobilizing them, dragging the kicking stinky ghoul and the snarling young man to a safer spot upstairs. Amidst the struggle, Gabban received a head-spinning punch on his jaw despite that he and Olivian were the strongest out the four of them.

"Shit, Fox!" – he hissed in the lowest voice he could manage, briefly tempted to return the favor if that would make his brother more _collaborative_ – "Would you _stop_ that?!"

Vulpes had cast to him a confused, then flabbergasted, then _downright furious_ look.

"What do you think _you lot_ are doing _here_?!" – the _Summus_ Frumentarius hissed, taking in the familiar faces of his agents. All young men under his orders that had once belonged either to _La Jauría_ or to _Los Nuevos Nahuas_.

For better or worse, they all were family there.

"Long story." – Gabban replied, rubbing the sore spot where he knew he would sport a dark bump in a matter of minutes – "We need to get you out of here before that thing makes a meatloaf out of you."

_"¿Amigos tuyos, chavo?"_ _**(4) **_– the now calmed stinky ghoul inquired in a Mexican accent, earning a scandalized look from each one of the present Frumentarii there.

Did that necrotic had just called their boss… _"lad"?_

_"Sí, Raúl."_ – Vulpes replied to the ghoul, his breath coming in heavy panting, the blood pouring from the top of his head in-between his eyes onto his long nose, dripping reddish droplets from the point as he spoke – _"Amigos… amigos impertinentes." __**(5) **_– he hissed venomously, looking again to Gabban, who couldn't believe his ears. It had been so long since he heard Vulpes speaking Spanish outside their reduced circle… - "Isn't that _right_? For, if my memory serves me well, last time I checked _you_ were _not_ the one giving _me_ orders, _brother_." – Vulpes snarled with that self-sufficient flair Gabban disliked so much, his prideful nature quickly overcoming his earlier distressed call for help – "Besides, I am not getting out of here without Sullivan."

Gabban blinked.

"Who?" – he asked, watching with utter impotence how his pigheaded brother shoved Olivian aside, checked his rifle and got up, tripped as if he were drunk until he found a spot to rest the barrel of his gun to gain steadiness, targeted and shot the unstoppable killing machine two stories below on the streets.

The answer he received was yet another plasma grenade that charred one of the metallic shoulder pads from his armor and formed a gap on the floor. Ignatius being the one who had pushed him aside before the radioactive explosion turned the Fox into a puddle of green goo, receiving a charred jacket and two arms full of blisters as repay.

But Vulpes - still fixated on his fight - got up again, intent on repeating the move.

"Stop that!" – Gabban exclaimed, tackling him to the ground where the two of them wrestled, nearly rolling into the floor hole – "STOP!" – he bellowed, hands balled onto each other's shirtfronts. Despite having a concussion, Vulpes was still tough as nails to subdue – "Look at you! You're uncoordinated! Can't even stand on your two feet, less shooting straight!"

"The Courier, you _idiot_!" – the other barked, making the younger man flinch. His brother rarely lost his composure this bad in front of others, less he threw around insults so carelessly – "That _animal_ is here for _her_!"

"ARCADE!"

Upon hearing her voice, the Courier's voice, the old ghoul stomped by the window, an unpinned frag grenade on his hand while Vulpes broke free from Gabban's grip, aimed and shoot again.

While he didn't hit target, his distraction maneuver served the Mexican ghoul well when his grenade fell at the killing machine's feet and exploded.

But, after the dust and rubble cleared out, the monster was still on his two feet in one piece… and gifted them with yet another plasma shot that vaporized the piece of wall between them.

"RETREAT!" – Vulpes yelled, grabbing the Mexican ghoul as if he were a potato sack over his shoulder while jumping into the hole on the ground as Gabban and the rest sought protection on the stairwell connecting floors, bracing themselves for a second immediate explosion that knocked down the back wall, making part of the already rundown building collapse around them.

* * *

With only one eye sane after that second explosion had sent his body up the air to land painfully onto unyielding asphalt, Boone's perception felt a bit distorted when he got his gun, like Johnny had done that sunny afternoon, and got up to immediately crouch behind a fallen piece of concrete that had pertained to the edifice where the grenade of that damnable monster had landed.

He was surrounded by dust, rubble and… what he grimly detected to be body parts that had belonged to very different people.

But none he could identify, thank God.

When his Battalion had hit Bitter Springs, there had been so many bodies – both belonging to Khans as well as his comrades – that he had felt sick.

He recalled the orders, how Gilles had radioed that command nobody had dared to question.

Blood had painted the earth before he had the chance to recharge the round magazine of his rifle. Johnny had been by his left. Manny had been at Camp Golf, so he hadn't witnessed the carnage.

Months later, as much as Manny had attempted for him to talk with him, Boone had been having none of it.

Children, women, elders… Manny's people reduced to piles of inert flesh.

And then, the Khans who had been armed had started returning gunfire.

Johnny's head had exploded next to Boone. He had felt the sticky goo splashing his face for the next year, by night, when darkness would engulf his sins, washing them away in alcohol.

Then, after the worst ten minutes of everybody else's life, Dhatri had issued the order to stop the fire.

But the damage had been done already.

After that, he had started drinking.

What he wouldn't give for a beer now…

_Focus._ – he scolded himself – _You need to wear this bastard down and find the girlie._

For he wasn't so sure he could kill that thing. Not after watching how two bullets had gone right through his rotted head and he hadn't even flinched.

Being a ghoul, Boone could say safely that he wasn't human, but the incredible resilience he had witnessed from the other was, in a word, _monstrous_.

Nobody survived a shot to the head aimed by a 1st Recon. Not even the girlie.

They were facing something far more dangerous than a mere agent sent from the further East of the Old America to deal with the girlie. This, Boone had never seen in all his years of service.

Now he understood many things. Way _too many_ things. There was a much bigger threat hiding behind the smoke curtain Legion banners, without even being aware of it, were providing. A dragon roaring its challenge from the other side of the desert, a more vicious Wasteland awaiting ahead before the Republic's expansion campaign hit its unavoidable end, just as the tumbleweed had said.

The girlie had escaped from Hell and its gatekeeper was here to retrieve her.

Boone wasn't going to allow it. Even at the cost of his own life.

He wasn't allowing another Sullivan to die under his watch.

So, he aimed again to the head and pulled the trigger.

Dead, milky blue eyes were the last thing he saw through the lens of his rifle before another explosion landed by his left and a wave of corroding radiation washed over him.

* * *

From her position, Six watched the near structure at the other side of the street collapse, fear grappling every inch of her body like an iron claw.

She could barely move, trapped as she was between Arcade's weight and the burning asphalt under them, her left arm insensitive due to pressure while her right hand strived to find her gun holster by her hip.

She heard distant gunfire - two rifles - meanwhile a stream of angry cussing echoed throughout the boulevard.

"I'M GONNA KNOCK YOU OFF YOUR FUCKING AXLES, YOU UGLY SON OF A BITCH!"

Cass.

Then, violent barking.

Rex.

Another load, another firing.

_BOOM._

The air was so thick with radiated heat and the acrid smoke of corroded asphalt that Six felt growing increasingly dizzy, her stomach protesting in retaliation.

Her fingers found the grip of her gun in time to point it to the hand that attempted to pull her weight from under Arcade's body.

She was quickly disarmed with what she felt was an instinctive maneuver.

"Courier Six?" – an unfamiliar, very human voice asked in whispers – "_Ave_, Frumentarius Cassius at your service."

She grabbed onto Arcade's unconscious form, meeting the visage of her might-be savior: a Hispanic young man that, despite being crouched, she could tell he was as tall as _Zorro_ and with triple his width.

Odd, since Hispanic people were usually small. Raul being a good example of it.

"Who sent you?" – she whispered back, one eye watching out for Charon's impending return.

"Gabban, Vulpes Inculta's Second-In-Command." – the young man answered patiently despite knowing they didn't have much time – "Allow me to get you out of there so we can reunite with the rest."

"I'm not leaving my friend here." – she replied defiantly, holding Arcade with even more force – "Help me getting him out and I will come with you."

Lady Luck was on her side as this particular legionary, despite his impressive brawn, didn't seemed too keen on confrontations when he did as told, carrying effortlessly Arcade's weight on one shoulder, guiding her in between buildings, zigzagging smoothly and silently to the adjacent street, where giant boulders of concrete rubble piling against the city garbage walls offered more visual covering. At least for now.

"My gun, if you please." – Six asked the legionary who, surprising her yet again, did as asked without further questioning, extending her 10mm to her open palm. No sexist or patronizing comments, no nasty stares, no nothing.

"We need to find the nearest manhole." – the Frumentarius informed her, his voice still low, his eyes vigilant – "My orders are to take you to our hideout on the sewers and, from there, ideate a strategy either to counteract the enemy's attack or to find a way out the city."

She let out a shaky, miserable laugh.

"You cannot stop him." – she muttered grimly, flexing the still numb fingers of her left hand – "You cannot kill him."

More gunfire. This time coming dangerously close to their location. A few explosions coming both from 40mm plasma and ordinary frag grenades demolished parts of inhabited edifices, drawing screams from their interiors.

A rusty carcass of a car blew off at the other end of the street, unleashing a chain reaction from the other vehicles neatly disposed as barricades nearby Ground Zero; two beepings coming from two very different Pip-Boys met irradiated air. Six muted her device, but the other beeping grew closer and closer.

She futilely prayed that the other device was _Zorro's_… but the moment an impossibly tall, muscled silhouette emerged amidst flames and smoke, the grenade launcher still intact by his hip as the device attached to his left wrist kept beeping, she knew her luck had finally run out when her eyes met the hollow, impassive milky gaze of the Ferryman.

Taking out the safe mechanism of her 10mm, she aimed. The Frumentarius by her side left his burden resting against a concrete boulder, unholstering a six-shooter.

The Gates of Hell awaited her, but she wouldn't cross the threshold without a fight.

* * *

Raul coughed, sneezed and spat a great deal of dust that had mixed with what was left of his taste buds quite disgustingly.

_"Pendejo…"_ – he cursed in Spanish, his blood boiling with each word leaving his rotted lips as his voice raised in volume, getting angrier and angrier – _"Pinche perro."_ – he snarled, his mother would turn in her own grave if the poor woman could hear him now, most likely she would have slapped his filthy mouth with one of her _chanclas __**(6) **_– _"¡Chinga tu madre!"_ – he yelled, unable to contain his fury as he emerged from the pile of debris that had buried him minutes ago – _"¡ME CAGASTE, DESGRACIADO, ME CAGASTE PERO BIEN!"_ _**(7) **_– he punctuated with a thin fist hitting rubble around.

A pained moan by his right cut short his tirade while a gloved hand reached for him.

_"Viejo…"_ – the voice of the _chavo_ emerged under piles and piles of bricks the same his hand did – _"Deja de decir palabras malsonantes y ayúdame a salir de aquí…" __**(8)**_

It took a ridiculous amount of time and effort to get half the boy's lanky body out - enough to allow him to deal with the rest by hand anyway - mostly due to the both of them being sore and unbelievably bruised from their little adventure jumping a floor down.

_"Ay… ay… ay…"_ – Raul complained, searching for his _vaquero_ hat as the laughable tuft of hair that was left on his head was undignifying for a man his age – "Too old for this, _chavo_, too damn old…"

"Old, yes." – the boy confirmed, huffing like a brahmin, picking bricks above his buried legs achingly slow – "Mouth as filthy as a sewer, most definitely." – at that, Raul felt like blushing, his temper always getting the worst of him when it raged like an inferno – "But still tenacious and unyielding, I'd say."

The ghoul didn't know why, but that almost brought tears to his old eyes. Almost.

A weak howling gave them some pause.

"FOX!" – the voice of the other lad, the one the _chavo_ had called "brother", emerged distant, cushioned behind rubble – "Are you still alive?!"

"Yes!" – the boy shouted back – "Are all of you still alive as well?!"

What an odd family, Raul thought. Weirdest way to _express concern_ over each other's wellbeing ever.

"Yeah!" – came the response, this time closer – "Hold on there, we're coming!" - a few seconds passed and then a path was cleared from the other side, several pairs of hands taking out debris, dust and bricks until they reached them – "What the fuck, man?!" – the blonde young man exclaimed upon seeing his brother's half-buried form, attempting to pull him out without success – "Shit! You're stuck!"

"Would everybody just stop _yelling obscenities_ the likes of a P…" – Raul noticed the _chavo_ hesitated minimally before resuming talk as if nothing had happened – "… the likes of a _pimp_ announcing the cheapest rate, and help digging me out of here?"

As soon as those words had abandoned his lips, his brother and the other three young men started doing so, pulling him out by his arms.

Once they managed to get him out and Raul had found his hat, the necrotic noticed how vastly different were all of them, statures, races, build and all… but every single one of them was muscular under those Vegas suits they wore.

Tribals, dressed as gamblers roaming around Freeside while a dangerous armed motherfucker had the place under his boot?

Were they a gang or what? After all, when Boss had found the _chavo_ at the Strip, he had been dressed as a gambler as well…

"I cannot walk." – _chavo_ announced calmly once everybody had gathered their breaths – "One of you is going to have to carry me on piggyback and follow the instructions I will give him." – then, his blue eyes gazed over the group to stop on his brother, the bulkiest out the four of them.

The aforementioned gave him a long-suffering groan.

"Goddamnit, Fox!"

* * *

Rose of Sharon Cassidy found, to her much dismay, that her whiskey hip flask was empty.

Even this small mercy was denied to her, huddled behind a half-knocked-down wall and with her right arm, hip and leg burning after that plasma explosion had gotten the best of her when the motherfucking pile of cars she had been hiding in had exploded.

_Crash! Boom! Bang! _And now, her butt hurt like hell. Just like when that one-timed asshole at the Mojave Outpost several months before thought he could try _her_ asshole without throwing any lube on the mix.

It had been a fun, drunken-to-puke night, but next morning she had found out that going to the privy had become quite the _challenging_ task.

She had busted off two of the bastard's molars and she had spent three days on the other side of the bars from the prison barracks.

But, hey, after that they had shared yet another bottle and everything had been okay.

But that had been _then_, not _now_, when she couldn't apply the same principle. Not in _this_ situation.

And so, her jeans were ruined and she didn't want to check on the burns because, let's face it, the moment she would see them, she would be _very_ pissed off.

And when she was pissed off, she tended to do things. Stupid things, to be precise.

And she wasn't currently at her top-notch. She had needled herself a Stimpack she had gotten on her backpack, but the thing would take a while before its effect started showing.

And if she didn't start moving soon, Six…

She almost jumped at the sudden contact of a very cold, very small hand closing around her good wrist.

She had almost forgotten she was playing the nanny part as well.

"Calm down." – that kid, the one wearing a funny collar dog of sorts around his forehead, the one Six had insisted to bring along with them, was giving her that spooky look again – "The Courier is alright and the others will be in need of your strength soon. You cannot beat the evil, but you can help to find what is going to be lost." – after that, his tiny hand took a wild strand of hair and put it gently behind her ear – "You are failing nobody. You are not your father."

If he had been seven years older, she would have knocked off his teeth with a well-directed punch.

But, instead, here she was, listening to a creepy child helping her nurse her own shit.

At least, she had managed to protect him. Something she wasn't very good at with the people she cared of.

"You will be a great mom, miss Cassidy."

At that, Cass simply snorted. This conversation was getting more and more bizarre by the minute, but the weird kiddo was helping her cooling off her anger despite herself.

So, reclining her head against the rundown wall, she permitted herself to relax enough so the chem could take effect as soon as possible.

She would be help to nobody if she couldn't aim properly.

* * *

She had been _unbelievably lucky_ that the Frumentarius had been the first one to shoot, so she had gotten a few seconds of advantage to run sideways and take Charon's attention away from the spot where Arcade was lying down, so the next impact of plasma grenade would be as far away from the blonde medic as possible.

The adrenaline kick allowed her to heard the launching mechanism of the gun with a difference of time enough inside her brain to predict more or less where it would land.

She fled through a very much solid window, sending crystals away before the plasma corroded the asphalt and part of the wall that sustained that very window.

She fell on her hands and knees, small bleeding cuts prickling her palms and a dull ache burning the right side of her ribs when she dashed upstairs the building, knowing altitude would offer a small advantage over the ghoul. If he wanted to pursue her jumping roof after roof, she would give him the run of his life.

She managed to climb her way to the edifice's rooftop before watching how the redhead necrotic seized the Frumentarius by the neck and hoisted him up with just one hand, the young man futilely clawing his hand was already bruised and bleeding.

She shot to the ghoul's legs.

"HEY, CHARON!" – she yelled, shooting again – "OVER HERE!"

Fortunately, the giant lost interest in his prey when he dropped the spy, loaded his gun and shoot her. She accomplished dodging the area of impact by mere inches.

Then, he dashed after her.

Good.

"Yes Man!" – she exclaimed, sizing the distance between structures, taking several steps back to gain impulse – "Calibrate V.A.T.S. by increasing electrical pulsations on an 2% through ulnar and median nerves and 4% increasing for the radial nerve! Redirect a 0,9% blood irrigation to the lower side of my body, heart and a 0,5% to the brain for the next ten seconds!"

This time, Yes Man complied without questioning. What she had asked for was risky, but reasonable enough to get a longer kick of adrenaline as well as more strength on her heart rate and legs.

She was going to need it.

Running with all her might, she sprinted towards the end of the rooftop and she felt like Neo connected to the Matrix defying gravity when her short flight took her to the other side, falling gracelessly on the neighboring rooftop, rolling to soften the impact her ankles, knees and spine got upon landing.

"Shitshitshitshitshit…" – she wailed, her right wrist sending waves of pain as soon as the adrenaline lowered and she had to roll aside again when Charon shoot yet another plasma grenade to her rooftop, his intention clearly aiming to disintegrate her, not crippling.

She exploited the freshly-baked out hole to roll into it, luckily for her to fall over an old mattress that looked like it had pertained to a beggar once, the interior looking dirty and abandoned. She couldn't stomach destroying more inhabited buildings, so she thanked that she had chosen an unoccupied one.

She felt rather than heard Charon landing on what remained of the rooftop.

Then, shooting.

"SULLIVAN!" – she heard outside, and she ran to look out the nearest window between the gap of the next edifice to see a very bruised _Zorro_ being carried by a blonde young man whose eyes looked as blue as his own – "Jump! JUMP!" – he said, extending both his arms as if to catch her.

She questioned nothing – not even the alarmed look the blonde carrier directed to his problematic rider – when Charon fell through the roof gap and she fell into _Zorro's_ arms, sending him and his carrier to the ground.

She held him tight the same he did with her when his scream traveled through the boulevard.

"NOW!"

The carrier, _Zorro_ and her rolled as a sole being through a small hole on the sidewall on the next building when several synchronized explosions sent the one from where she had jumped down to its very foundations.

A surge of debris and dust washed over the hole as parts of the demolished building fell onto the upper part of the one they were in, collapsing the upper stories.

Her arms released _Zorro_ once the walls around them started cracking under the weight.

"Fuck you, Fox!" – the blonde carrier exclaimed, getting up with the white-haired young man over his shoulders aided by her, his angry tirade going on and on as they run for the exit – "Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck you!"

They came to a close call, nearly didn't make it when a ton of bricks followed their way out the crumbling structure, unknown hands setting them aside to roll onto searing asphalt once again.

When she opened her eyes, disoriented and slightly nauseous, her form was cradled between the arms of a wiry Afro-American boy not old enough to be dressed as a Vegas gambler as he was, watching the aftermath of such risky maneuver with eyes big as casino roulettes.

"Mars above…" – he whispered, thunderstruck.

A legionary.

His arms were still around her.

"Um… hi?" – she probed.

Big dark eyes moved from the collapsed ruin onto hers. His cheeks reddening instantly as his arms released her.

"H-hi." – he replied nervously.

He was way taller than her and as muscular as a thin teenager could get, but his boyish, almost childlike face told Six that he was even younger than her.

Child soldiers… just like her.

She heard _Zorro_ sneezing from a short distance.

"I hate you, Fox." – the blonde carrier was still bitching, his straw-colored hair bleached with debris – "I fucking hate you so much."

The interpellated sneezed again in response, his wavy hair as equally dirty with dust as the rest of them.

Another Afro-American young man, older and broader than the one Six had by her side, helped them getting up again, the carrier still swearing in a low voice as _Zorro_ was accommodated again on his back. Then, another pair of silhouettes arrived to help out: a mulatto lad with his gambler suit ruined by the arms, a trail of angry blisters covering every inch of naked skin from knuckles to shoulders; and then, to Six's greatest joy, Raul, who looked bruised but in one piece.

"Oh, shit!" – her young companion exclaimed, his big eyes watching in horror what froze Six on her spot.

For a body was emerging amidst dust and rubble, the green light of his Pip-Boy shining menacingly behind the curtain of dirt.

"Why. Won't. You. DIE?!" – _Zorro_ barked, his hands quicker than thought now wielding his rifle, sending uncoordinated shots to the rising figure, Raul and the rest promptly imitating him with their own guns.

However, as soon as Six got up, she yelled:

"Stop!" – she said, reaching to grab _Zorro's_ shaking hand – "He's augmented! Regular shooting won't do him any harm!"

She felt relieved that none of them dismissed her warning when everybody started to run to the opposite direction of their common enemy, her hand tightly grasped by _Zorro's_ as the young man seemed wanting to be sure she was on his sight all the time.

"So, Boss..." – Raul said, strangely conversational despite the extreme situation all of them were in, his words coming in ragged panting while he ran – "What are we fighting… exactly?"

"A cyborg!" – she replied shakily, turning her head to see that Charon had gotten free from the debris and he was already gaining ground, his monstrous body achieving greater speed behind them. Thank God, his grenade launcher was nowhere to be seen – "He's got… subdermal implants that shields and regenerates tissue constantly despite ghoulification! Plus, the muscular enhancements that makes him faster and stronger than any regular man!"

"What?!" – she could hear incredulity in _Zorro's_ voice, his long fingers squeezing hers tighter.

"He was trained and _constructed_ to kill!" – she replied – "You cannot best him!"

"No man is _that_ invulnerable! He _has_ to have a weakness we can exploit!"

A scream pierced the air and, as if materializing from thin air, Veronica and her Power Fist landed a phenomenal blow to Charon's head. A blow that might have killed a regular man but that simply tackled down the monstrous necrotic to the ground.

"Run, Six!" – she shouted, delivering the ghoul yet another blow after the next – "RUN!"

Neither of them did stop, but _Zorro_ and she shared their mutual anguish through their joined hands when they turned their heads and saw Charon grabbing the Brotherhood Scribe by the neck and threw her over his head like a ragdoll, banging her against a garbage wall that had been minimum thirty feet away.

"Manhole!" – one of the young legionaries exclaimed, skidding through asphalt to open the heavy metallic cover leading to the city sewer system.

"Everybody inside!" – _Zorro_ ordered – "QUICKLY!"

Six almost banged her teeth against the steps of the metallic ladder when she was literally shoved underground. Her wrist resenting the fall when she landed on her hands and feet.

And she almost screamed in pain when said wrist was grabbed violently by _Zorro's_ long fingers again. Behind her, Raul and the rest were dropping mines and homemade powder charges.

"NOW, RAUL!" – _Zorro_ barked.

Then, as soon as the old ghoul unpinned an unerring grenade, everybody got to the next section behind one of those reinforced pre-War doors that was shut tight after Raul got inside with them.

The explosion was deafening and Six hit her head twice against grimy walls when the ground shook and she lost balance.

After the seism was over, the reinforced door presented a convex form like an inedible can of Pork N' Beans.

Nobody wanted to test the limits of the door's functionality as everyone got up and run Northwest, then South.

They spent nearly an hour cleaning the path from radroaches, giant rats and the occasional feral ghoul until they reached a tunnel that got them several levels underground to the Legion's unofficial hideout in Vegas.

_"Ay, mis rodillas… Ay… ay… ay… mis pobres rodillas…"_ _**(9) **_– Raul moaned upon entering the place, rubbing his sore knees with one hand while he fanned his face with his hat.

Formerly a sort of a maintenance quarter with an actually working terminal, several lockers, a working hot plate and two workbenches, the legionaries had reformed it into a fully operational hideout with packaged supplies, bottled water and several mattresses neatly distributed as far from the door as possible, where a rigged shotgun trap awaited the intruder.

If nothing, these guys were incredibly well-organized and kept their spaces neat and minimal.

But what brought tears to the girl's eyes was to find Arcade and that Hispanic Frumentarius already there.

She literally threw herself to the medic's still unconscious form now occupying one of the mattresses.

"Arcade!" – she exclaimed, cradling lovingly the blonde man's head against her chest, earning a delirious groan – "Is he okay? Are you okay?" – she asked full-speed to the still bruised but other than that perfectly healthy Frumentarius, who offered her a bottle of water and a nod in response – "Thank you, thank you so much!" – she said, breathless, gulping nearly half the bottle in one sit, kneeling next to her friend and attempting to make him drink despite how bad her right wrist hurt – "Um… sorry, I'm not good with names and my memory is kinda tricky these days. What was your name again?"

The bulky young man didn't answer immediately but directed her a guarded stare. Then, he eyed _Zorro_, waiting for confirmation.

"That's Miguelito." – the young man blushed when the Master Frumentarius referred to him as such. Six understood that they couldn't give her their Legion names in front of Raul, so maybe, for once, she was getting their _true_ birthnames instead – "He's from a neighbor tribe we used to trade with. The rest are _Fénec_." – he said, pointing to the mulatto boy with blisters in his arms that he was now cleaning with water and bandaging – "_Licaón_." – the older Afro-American met her eyes with a nod – "And _Pequeño Chacal_." _**(10)**_

The last one, being the teenager that had saved her earlier, started grumbling that 'he wasn't so _pequeño_ anymore', earning a stern glance from their leader.

Six then looked at the blonde carrier, who grasped on her expression and rolled his eyes pointing at his troublesome load, earning small giggling from her.

"Yes, well." – he grunted – "I'm _Coyote_, by the way; but trust English speakers to nail Spanish pronunciation and they will fail miserably, so everybody here calls me Gabriel."

This surely was that… Gabban person Miguelito had told her about earlier. She doubted any of the others would dare speak to _Zorro_ the way this blonde lad did.

"Do we have chems?" – she heard _Zorro_ asking.

"Yup." – Gabban answered – "Quite a few, actually, even the unusable ones. We had to fight to get this place the way you see it now and safe enough to set camp. Fiends." – he explained, carrying _Zorro_ around, searching for a good place to drop him – "That's where we got the explosives too. This room was riddled with mines, grenade clusters and vomit since those drug addicts didn't know what _cleaning_ was. Took us our good time reconditioning it to suit our needs."

"Fiends?" – _Zorro_ repeated – "What business those human disgraces may have had by dwelling in here so far from their headquarters?"

"No idea." – Gabban replied, squatting carefully to put the other resting against a wall – "Getting high without sharing and/or informing Motor-Runner? It wasn't worth the bother keeping and interrogating any of them. Burn them, I say."

Six almost flinched at that declaration, recalling Nipton.

"Indeed." – _Zorro_ assented, already rolling up the legs of his pants to get a good view of the damage. Six hissed upon seeing the hematomas, swollen knees and, likely, broken bones. How he could be so nonchalant about it was beyond her – "Hmmm…" – he mused, looking at his wounds with clinical eye – "How many Stimpacks do we have?"

Gabban put a whole wooden Sarsaparilla box before him.

"Take your pick." – he replied – "We have also cooked Hydra and healing powder, should you want some."

"Did you cook the Hydra?"

"Yep."

"A bottle, if you please." – _Zorro_ requested; his tone pleasantly placid – "You yourself should munch some powder. That bump is getting black."

"Gee, _thanks_, Fox. I hadn't noticed." – was the irritated reply he got, making Six suspect that the source of Gabban's injuries had something to do with _Zorro_.

Apparently, many things had taken place in the short span of time the group had gotten separated.

That thought alone dampened her spirits, praying to a God she didn't believe in that the others were okay or, at least, alive. She didn't count on having blown up Charon on that tunnel explosion. Laura's bodyguard was nearly indestructible.

That thought depressed her too. Burke's last message had implied that he had sent Charon – through Laura, of course, as the ghoul would NEVER answer to Burke's orders if the man wasn't the one in possession of his contract - to deal with her, maybe crippling her down to a "reparable" extent, but returning with her alive.

If Charon was so intent in killing her, he has either gone rogue or had, somehow, circumvented Laura's orders given that he only answered to the one who held his contract.

That meant that this was a duel to the death.

And she was the one holding the short straw of the deal.

"Sullivan."

Raising her eyes, she met _Zorro's_ very blue gaze looking at her intently.

"Come here."

Even if his voice was soft and his words could be interpreted innocuously enough, she couldn't help but notice that he had issued those two words more like a command than a request. He hadn't said "please".

She complied though, taking Arcade's glasses with her so they won't hurt him while he rested.

She knew they were in a Legion hideout, surrounded by five legionaries – six if she counted _Zorro_ too – that could either help them the same they could turn hostile if she didn't play by their rules. _Zorro_ was, evidently, the highest-ranked member here and these men – while from the same tribe more or less and incredibly young – looked up for him to lead them.

Maybe part of the act included assuming the leadership while relegating her to the "subordinate" category the same he had been playing contingent while traveling with her.

She didn't consider herself a prideful person, nor her reluctant "leadership" on their group was something she considered entitled to… but this new arrangement, with her following orders instead of giving them while more often attempting to get a consensus out of all the members of their group… didn't quite sit well with her.

It reminded her the time before she was shot, when Burke had been the one calling the shots for the last five years of her life.

The moment she stood before him, _Zorro_ made her a gesture to kneel by his eye height.

"Let me see that wrist."

Still commanding, still soft. She felt like blushing when she extended to him the swollen joint. This was wrong, she shouldn't bitch about him internally but she also shouldn't overlook this new attitude. This entire situation was new and she didn't like it one bit.

His long fingers closed around her wrist delicately and she winced when he touched a particularly sore spot.

"Hold still." – he commanded once more, raising a Stimpack syringe to her forearm.

She shut her eyes tight. Even when she was the one applying the chem to herself, she couldn't bear looking at the needle entering her flesh.

In Vault 5, there had been injections for a whole lifetime.

A small prick, then the usual itchiness Stimpacks left behind until all the broken tissue was completely sealed. It would take some time.

Then, before she could retire her arm, a fresh, drenched cloth was put around her entire hand.

"Hold it up for fifteen minutes until the inflammation wears off." – he instructed – "I will need your pulse to reassemble the bones on my right leg."

Wait, _what_?

The shock must have been shown on her face, because _Zorro_ kept talking.

"The medic would be off for the next couple of hours and, besides my brother here present, none of the others have the faintest idea regarding something more complicated than First Aid." – he explained, his face dead serious whereas Gabban directed him yet another irritated look as he munched up a mouthful of healing powder – "Besides, they will probably aid on the disjointing rather than help, if we are completely honest."

Without uttering the insult, he had just called his men "brutes". Very _Zorro_-like.

Brother… glancing again at Gabban, Six could pick out the similitudes: same eye color, same tense jaw and same ears. However, other than a faint lookalike regarding facial bone structure and some common tics and gestures that had more of a learning than a genetic component, nobody would say they were brothers.

Gabban had bigger eyes, a smaller nose and a face more rounded, more open. And his hair was thicker and straighter. His voice was deeper and a bit roughened, but that could be due to fatigue product of the indecent amount of time he had carried his brother around today.

He was bulkier than _Zorro_, but shorter in stature. He wasn't handsome, but he had an attractiveness of his own, his open face inviting sympathies and his expressive nature making one trust him almost immediately, as if he were a childhood friend you hadn't seen in a lot of time.

Six was sure that, if the circumstances had brought to her the two brothers at the same time when she had decided to risk life and limb befriending a legionary, she would have chosen Gabban over _Zorro_ without a second thought.

But circumstances had given her a difficult, intense, extremely distrusting, hell of a complicated twenty-year-old boy.

And now, deep inside her, choice wasn't even a possibility anymore. Time had brought her closer to the Fox rather than the Coyote. And she was fine with that.

Foxes were cuter, anyway. The same _Zorro's_ features, in contrast to his brother's, were more delicate, but sharp at the same time. His face was gaunt, with pronounced temples and high cheekbones, hollow eyes and a long, very elegant nose that stood proudly above thin lips he kept, most of the time, tightly closed in an indifferent, though sometimes a bit despondent grimace. His hair was thin, curly and soft.

His voice was, in a word, smooth. So smooth that, despite his alien appearance and how little did his terse countenance invited trust, he could very well convince the sanest man to throw himself out a window, if he did so choose.

He was wiry yet compact, his body language changed depending on the situation, for he could be graceful and lithe one minute the same he could turn out gangly and a bit chaotic the next.

Six didn't know if he could be called handsome… but he possessed an allure that turned downright overwhelming when he decided to combine his voice with eye contact and that feline attitude he liked to exhibit from time to time as if he were playing with a mouse he had just caught.

Sometimes, he awakened impulses in her she didn't feel comfortable acknowledging. It felt incredibly wrong when he decided to put on that playful attitude and she would find herself feeling like running in panic when everything was just that, a silly game.

That demonstrated just how incredibly inept she was at social exchanges, clumsy when even joking.

What a mess she was.

Between this and that, fifteen minutes passed pretty quickly and the nearly healed wrist she found under the now dry rag was her cue to brace herself for what was coming next.

She had never realigned bones before, and the skin around had turned out different tonal grades going from purplish to black.

She felt like vomiting with anxiety, but she followed the instructions she was given by _Zorro_, who simply braced himself using Gabban as a support when she pulled bloated flesh to get the femur back on its place.

Without any Med-X to dull the pain.

She would have screamed, _Zorro_ limited himself to grunt in a _very_ vocal fashion.

So vocal, she knew her face was positively _glowing_ red when the issue was over.

As soon as Stimpacks started pouring in around the legs, she had turned to Raul to help him cover the bruised spots he couldn't reach by himself with dampened healing powder, her hands shaking so badly she had thanked immensely the ghoul's near infinite patience.

"N-need help?" – she had asked Miguelito once she was done with the necrotic.

The young man had seemed surprised by her offer, but he had shaken his head.

"It's alright." – he had replied – "I've already had three healing powder dosages."

Nodding, she had turned to seek what more she can do so her growing nervousness would diminish a bit when one of the young man's hands found hers.

"I didn't thank you properly." – he said, his hand leaving hers as soon as he caught the somber stare _Zorro_ was giving them from distance – "For your assistance earlier. You saved my life."

She ventured a small smile and nodded, getting in response another nod. The weight of _Zorro's_ stare never giving up its incisiveness.

** _"Yes, Birdie, dearest. I want you _** **right here_ by my side so I can supervise your… movements around this facility. We wouldn't want to put at risk your _wellbeing_ when there is so much at stake, do we?"_**

She didn't know why, but she got the impression that the air felt heavier down here, all of them hiding like hares wary of the wolf outside, setting a mute war amidst them, defining new roles, baring incisors to each other's.

** _"Oh, don't misinterpret my words: apathy is a condition of the present blight, and it is bound to be exploited by those swift enough to adapt to rapid changing conditions, such as our friend the Colonel."_ **

When she felt that she couldn't take the tension anymore, she asked for a metallic bucket Gabban proportioned to her to, immediately, vomiting on it, earning quite the alarmed looks from nearly everyone in the room.

But the emptier her stomach got, the better she started feeling after a while.

Vomiting had been, for the last five years, the only way to cope with her many panic attacks and now wasn't any different.

Once she was done, the air in the room felt less tense, but more guarded.

"You okay, Boss?" - Raul's hand was hesitant upon her bony shoulder, but its weight provided her the desired sedative effect she wanted so much.

"Now, I am." – she confirmed, squeezing the old man's fingers briefly – "Thanks, Raul."

The necrotic stayed a bit with her until he was sure she wasn't forcing her stomach again. Raul had been the only one who had caught her vomiting enough times to ask if she saw herself fat or something.

While his intentions had been born out of pure and simple concern, Six had been unable to explain to him what was exactly wrong with her and, despite nearly everybody in the group being aware of her past, she still couldn't put words to it.

It still hurt too much.

Every single day felt like chaining a trigger after the next, unable to control what her damaged brain wanted to serve her for lunch, feeding on the worst part of her memories, linking past with present, exchanging faces and names and dates until everything felt indistinguishable.

Charon… he clearly had the best intentions in mind too… but those very intentions were proving to be lethal for her.

Why conflict seemed to follow her wherever she went?

** _"You see, my dear girl: these times are the crucible for a glorious future. One shouldn't be overly concerned with who gets burned in the process as long as it isn't yourself, wouldn't you agree?"_ **

"Sullivan?"

Her mind went to a stop and the real world engulfed her again the same a long hand engulfed her right shoulder.

How she had walked from one corner of the room to the other, she couldn't remember.

"You can let go of the bucket."

She was holding the metallic bucket full of vomit against her chest. She was sweating and her whole face felt like it was on fire.

She was shaking.

"Boss?" – in front of her, Raul's ghoulish features distorted, his moustache turning out into once bleached skin, a mat of reddish hair surging from his head the same his bodily structure got bigger, menacing.

When the monstrous hands of this newly mutated being attempted to take the bucket from her hands, she held it more tightly.

"Sullivan."

** _"Birdie."_ **

_Nononononononononononononononononono…_

"Let go of the bucket."

** _"Where is the vial?"_ **

Suddenly, she was there again: the irradiated chamber, Laura barking instructions to her minions, mercs guarding the entrance, Enclave soldiers lying dead at their feet.

A civil war amidst comrades, Augustus Autumn's supporters and then those who had followed Burke's command, pushing forward for the so-called Neo-American Dream.

Project Purity being but Burke's vision of a clean, mutation-absent Wasteland that would ensure safer commercial routes between him and that Western America Daniel Littlehorn spoke so much about. The one Burke himself had come from before the Navarro Oil Rig incident when he had been a child. And Laura had served him the chance on a silver plate. Her father's dream distorted until it had been unrecognizable, plain greed under the guise of a common good.

Both had agreed that _'it was for the best'_.

But they hadn't asked the ghoul and mutant populations about their opinion on the matter.

The will of the ZAX computer had been about to fulfill itself. Just the same James Alden's tainted legacy had been about to reshape the world they had known.

However, Autumn had held the last ace on his sleeve.

Laura had shot him. But he had been far from _actually_ dead.

**_"Is he dead?"_** – Burke had asked, his tall, broad-shouldered form approaching with his palm extended - **_"Birdie, where is the vial?"_**

Autumn's fingers had slid into hers. With a wrestling maneuver she could have countered should she had _really_ wanted, the Colonel had immobilized both her arms, holding them by her back as an AEP7 laser pistol cannon was put against her temple.

_"Don't you move or this child will not be counting it for long."_

Burke had laughed coldly. Nonetheless, his voice hadn't been as smooth and steady as it usually was.

** _"Foolish old man. Do you really think whether she lives or dies holds that much significance to me?"_ **

She had known right from the start that Burke had never considered her anything beyond a pet project he had entertained for some time as long as he would be obtaining benefit out of allowing her to live.

But hearing it from the very man himself hadn't been any less painful.

_"Your father was a psychopath through and through, and I see you are but his spitting image, William."_ – Autumn had replied, unfaced by the irate glare he had obtained from Burke, who had been livid upon having his first name divulged in such a manner – _"Nevertheless, what should be of real concern to you isn't whether she lives or dies, but that Eden wants her alive."_

For the first time since she had awakened to this Post-Apocalyptical nightmare, she had felt important. Even with her life at stake, for the first time she had felt she was worth something.

Something that had forced two of the most powerful men in the Capitol Wasteland to stop the fire and start negotiations.

**_"I see we have reached an impasse, then."_**_ – _had been _his_ reply_ – **"What do you propose, Augustus?"**_

"Sullivan, look at me."

She fought to will her eyes see what she was meant to see.

But, instead of blue, she was seeing grey.

Behind tortoiseshell glasses, the eyes of the Devil were grey.

_"Propose? To _you_? You're deluding yourself if you think I am making any pact with the likes of you, William. You are a snake and I lived to tell the same about your sire; so, no, thank you very much but the girl and I are leaving."_ – directing a wary look to Laura, who had bared her teeth with barely-restrained hatred, he had added – _"And you would do well in restraining that Deathclaw you brought along, least you'll want the whole building collapsing around. I've planted enough C-4 plastic explosives all over the whole place to ensure this edifice is used for a good cause or none at all."_ – in his now freed hand, the detonator had been a very real threat. He had just to push the device's button and then, the lot of them would have gone _boom_ – _"If I see you or any of your henchmen getting out this room while I make my escape, I'm pushing the button."_

Her right side was burning when long gentle fingers pried under her bruised ribs.

** _"I didn't take you for a man who puts on a bluff this magnitude, Augustus."_ **

_"Test me, if you will, and deal with the consequences."_

"Damn it!"

She had never heard _Zorro_ curse before.

She didn't resist hands taking the upper part of her armor off the same she hadn't resisted when Autumn had guided her out the Jefferson Memorial's rotunda at gunpoint.

_"You and I are having a little talk now that we are alone, girl."_

Then, an excruciating pain bolted through her ribs.

She wailed in pain while strong arms held her in place as she thrashed wildly.

"There it is. A shard of glass. What should we do about the infection, Fox?"

"Penicillin… I think. She's showing all the common symptoms of blood poisoning: cool limbs, fever, rapid heart rate, confusion… Do we have a First Aid Kit somewhere?"

"One of those NCR fancy kits. The Fiends probably stole it."

"Then bring it to me."

"Are you sure you know what are you doing? She could die if you happen to inject her with the wrong treatment."

"I am no medic, alright?! And the only one we have is currently of no use, so pass the meds and shut your mouth already, will you?!"

Syringes always found their way back into her, just the same memories were returning, like the providential unwanted guest.

_"I'm afraid I have nothing to discuss with a man of your stature, Colonel."_

_"Oh, but I think we have, indeed, much to discuss. For, if I know a little about how the thought processes of our dear President works, you are meant to return from your mission here _alone_ to report your success to him. Am I right, girl?"_

_"Even if that were the case, what is in it to you?"_

_"Despite what you might think about us, the Enclave once was a proud, idealist comprise out of the best men and women this country had."_

_"Your Enclave was an institution conformed by members of the U.S.A. shadow government and high-ranked military officers – all white, rich people who thought that they were entitled to extend their mandate, no matter the Martial Law established by General Chase, the war or the lives they forsook in order to survive the bombs. So, save me the patriotic crap, Colonel, for I know very well just how much they paid to Vault-Tec to keep their mouths shut about the illegal experiments that were conducted inside those Vaults. I am living proof of that."_

_"So, it was true… You are from the original batch of Sleepers… you are, more than anybody else alive up to this day, a true Daughter of America. Eden is programmed to acknowledge it and act in consequence. You are one of our agents. And Burke knows it."_

But she had been no agent. No glorious war hero who had returned from cryostasis to help her old Government to make America great again.

She had returned with a thirst for revenge she had shown Autumn in its most raw, gruesome glory when she had been brought back again before the ZAX computer and she, finally, had managed to circumvent its logic.

She had avenged America. She had avenged her men.

She had avenged Mandy, she had avenged their crush and all the other countless innocents their own country had betrayed.

But she still hadn't found any trace of the motherfucker who had bombarded the Commonwealth, the one who had crushed down her only chance at reuniting with her family.

For, even if the U.S.A. Government had paid for their crimes, the Chinese Government had not.

* * *

Groaning when she deemed safe dropping the dead act, Veronica got up her lying position excruciatingly slow.

She was fortunate the Brotherhood had developed and refined, many years prior to their clash with the NCR, the technology with what her robes were designed.

Apparently a burlap made-up scavenger costume who had earned her first time she had encountered Cass the epithet "Potato Sack Queen" to, later, evolve into the pet name "Lil' Riding Punch"; her robes were made of a special synthetic fiber that not only could repel gunshots – Cazador stings, apparently, not so good - the same as good-condition metal armor, but it also helped with other kinds of impacts, such as the one she had gotten herself after being wrestled by that ghoul monster.

Because, if she had been wearing _actual_ standard robes, she would have ended with a broken spine.

She ached everywhere, but she counted herself fortunate to have gotten this small portion of the action as the plasma grenades that giant had been dropping around had been an ugly sight.

Cass, Clay, Rex and her had been separated from the rest the moment she had tackled the redhead and the child far away from the first explosion.

After that, it had been dodging grenades non-stop.

Being the only one who only relied on close-quarters combat, Veronica had found herself unable to counter the ghoul's gunfire and had act mostly as a barrier for Clay until she had lost Cass and him.

From that point on forward, aided by Rex, she had attempted to advance several times towards where she had heard Six's voice the last time, but that grenade launcher had been pretty persuasive until that building had crumbled around the motherfucker.

He had survived, the grenade launcher hadn't, so she had launched an attack to buy Six, Raul and Jimmy time enough to lost the dangerous ghoul.

She wanted to believe that the monster hadn't managed to get a hold on them.

She had played dead because she knew a cyborg when she saw one, and those were difficult to bring down without plasma lasers and Power Armor.

Rex found her after she had managed to get on her two feet.

"Hey, boy, hey…" – she said to the enthusiastic canine once he had started licking her hands lovingly – "We need Grandma. Search for Grandma!"

Lily and the Fat Man she brought along in her backpack could be the last chance they got to defeat that bastard.

Doing a small happy twirl, Rex sprinted towards a very particular big mound of rubble that Veronica started to dig.

"Granny?!" – she shouted, finding her hands infuriatingly slow taking off the biggest pieces of debris – "GRANNY! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

As if she had uttered the magical words, a big, bluish hand surged from under piled up broken concrete.

**"Is that you, Becky, dear?" **– was the first word she heard before Lily's gigantic form rose before her, almost making Veronica fall back on her butt – **"Grandma had been so worried for her little pumpkin!"**

Veronica launched herself between the Nightkin's arms, hugging her with all her might.

Up until today, the Scribe hadn't noticed… just how important was everyone in this group for her.

She had always thought that there would never be family beyond the Brotherhood… but these months traveling with Six had rekindled in her that very feeling she had been missing so much since her unofficial banishment. Acceptance no matter what, affection beyond blood and personal disagreements, protection and care to one another.

In a word: love.

For the first time in years since Elijah had decided to abandon them, Veronica felt loved and cherished.

She had found a family outside the restrictive walls of the bunker and she wasn't sorry about that.

She vowed to protect her new family at any cost the very instant she felt Lily's arms around her in return.

"Granny, I don't know what happened to the others!" – she exclaimed – "We need to find them before the big ghoul does!"

Picking her up from the ground, the supermutant sat Veronica over one of her muscular broad shoulders.

**"Don't you worry dearie."** – Lily replied, her booming tone confident – **"We will find the other children and then, we will give a good paddling to that bully. Right, Rexie?"**

The cyberdog barked enthusiastically, following the gigantic old woman's lead without losing a beat.

Veronica agreed to Lily. They will find them and, together, they will face this new threat the same they had been doing since Six had been picking them one by one.

She wouldn't be losing them. Not again.

* * *

Checking on the wounds of the unconscious Followers' doctor Cassius had brought to their hideout, – yet _another_ Courier-related thing they now had to deal with – Gabban applied wettened healing powder onto the man's contusions while he stole a peek at his brother and the Courier.

Vulpes had been always the practical kind of person whose judgment one could trust no matter what… if one could overlook his rare bursts of mania when things didn't go as he previously had meticulously planned, that is.

But this… this was entirely new.

Despite that both he and the girl had needed to lie down and rest to aid on a quicker recovery, he hadn't allowed himself to be transported to one of their mattresses alleging that he wasn't touching_ 'one of those lice-riddled things'_, insisting upon being allowed to rest sitting against the wall.

But he hadn't also allowed for the girl to be separated from him.

Feverish and unconscious, her upper body was currently nestled between Vulpes' arms whereas her legs rested between his. His chin had found a home over the top of her head whereas an idle hand was combing fingers amidst her chaos of a short hair lazily.

Gabban had _never_ seen Vulpes being affectionate to nearly any human being or creature outside their family. And the worst part of it was that he didn't seem to realize it, his long fingers tracing soft patterns over the girl's head while he nuzzled her hair distractingly from time to time.

This wasn't the _'gathering intel and, if possible, recruit'_ job Vulpes had told Gabban about before joining the Courier's group. Something fundamental had changed and Gabban wasn't so sure of his brother's capability to emit neutral judgment about this particular girl anymore.

Whether it was sexual attraction, genuine affection or a mix of the two, Vulpes couldn't have chosen worse: she was a Person Of Interest to Caesar, a prospect of an ally to the Legion and, even if the Master Frumentarius was allowed to use _any means_ at his disposition to obtain her collaboration, that didn't include him getting attached to his target.

It would violate the very fundamental principle of their Order: lovers were lovers and targets were targets. You could use the same means you employ to the former on the latter… but feeling shall never linger.

It saddened Gabban that his brother, his always _perfectionist_ brother, was not just failing his duty this miserably, but that he would do so because of a Profligate girl who wasn't nearly as hot as he could aspire to. Unfitting even for becoming a Legion wife as her skeletal figure wasn't any ideal vessel to hold life for nine months, not to add on her soldier tendencies, forbidden as they were for women in the Legion.

Gabban hoped that time would give Vulpes some perspective so he would end noticing these problematic traits and just forget about her.

They didn't act as lovers would, so there was still hope.

With that thought soothing his worries, Gabban continued working on the Profligate doctor.

He better worth all the trouble… or else.

* * *

The path to the sewers was destroyed.

It did bother him that he had lost his target, but he could use the break.

He had managed to subdue half the city in less than a week but these people had managed to _almost_ subdue him in less than thirty minutes.

The girl had gotten herself powerful allies.

This would be interesting.

The tensors of his right hand weren't working too well and he knew that sniper had blown off one of his subdermal chips, the one implanted at the base of his cranium that enhanced his senses.

He had heard rumors about that strange clinic on the Westside run by those Followers of the Apocalypse selling cybernetic enhancements.

And he needed the 'repairs' done as soon as possible so he could decipher how the city sewage web worked.

So, he had broken into a sprint to save the enormous distance between the Freeside and the Westside.

Upon his entering, a few Locals had been waiting their turn for the doctor inside to attend them.

He had disposed of those quickly.

The doctor in question had displeased him greatly. Her surname could have been Usanagi, a Japanese descendant, but for him all of them were the same.

Communists, yellows with those thrice-damned oblique eyes.

The ones who had rendered him what he was today: a dead man walking.

He had grabbed the woman by the throat, demanding that she attended the state of his hand and replaced the chip he had lost.

"Do you really expect me to… _intervene_ you while you are unconscious instead of… _turning_ you to the securitrons?" – she had gurgled, horrified upon discovering the corpses of her patients, but still brave enough to put up a fight.

He had to admit, the Commie had some guts.

"No." – he had answered dryly – "For you are going to intervene me without any anesthesia."

He had enjoyed the look of pure, unfiltered horror the woman had given him.

"You… you want me to do _what_?!" – she had gasped – "You will die!"

"I can endure it." – he had replied – "Besides, if you end really killing me, you will be doing the world a favor, wouldn't you?"

He had kept a pistol trained on her the whole procedure.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPANISH:
> 
> (1) - "Lad! LAD! My God... Oh, my God! Wake up, lad! WAKE UP!"  
(2) - "Hold your breath, lad. To the count of three. One... two... THREE!"  
(3) - "Son of a bitch..."  
(4) - "Friends of yours, lad?"  
(5) - "Yes, Raul. Friends... impertinent friends."  
(6) - slippers  
(7) - "Motherfucker... Disgraceful dog. Go fuck yourself! YOU FUCKED ME, YOU WRETCH, YOU FUCKED ME REAL GOOD!"  
(8) - "Old man... Quit saying such foul words and help me get out of here..."  
(9) - "Ow, my knees... Ow... ow... ow... my poor knees..."  
(10) - Fennec. Lycaon. Little Jackal. (Yep, all canine-derived names. It's Vulpes' tribe, what did you expect? XD)
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: action! Yes, about time, huh? I know I'm touching controversial themes again and that some characters' perceptions are... pretty offensive to say the least.
> 
> When I write, I tend to get into the characters' minds, and the way I have developed Charon is "justifiable" his hatred towards those he fought against during the Great War (even if the current Wastelanders are just their descendants and they, in truth, have nothing to do with what happened). Bear in mind that he was brainwashed and he had to endure ghoulification plus two-hundred years roaming a destroyed country. That would fuck up anybody's humanity, right?
> 
> I feel that the Fallout Franchise hasn't touched much the theme of non-feral ghoul survivors of the Great War and it's a shame. Many change names and professions during the years, yes, but their traumas had never been fully explored. I mean... they seem TOO sane for how much they may have suffered. With Raul's backstory, we get some insight into personal trauma, but he's Mexican, thus more disconnected to the American affairs than actual American citizens.
> 
> Imagine a society where you have been taught that Communist people are monsters, the more reason if you have been a soldier and you have fought against them in Alaska. Up to some point, with the bombs falling, your ideals crumble and your training is the only thing sustaining you on this new hostile environment. Just saying.
> 
> Anyway, hope this chapter had been more agile to read and that good feelings between characters had been greater and better than the bad ones.
> 
> Please, if you have something to say about my story, don't keep it a secret and let me know! :D
> 
> Cheers!


	18. Invincible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I'm not posting more warnings unless it is something I haven't warned of before. There are warnings in this chapter about rape threatening, human trafficking, bigotry towards homosexuality, and implications of how albinos are coveted in some cultures as a source of "magical" ingredients and how they traffic with people with such a medical condition. That's from certain parts in Malawi, Tanzania and Zambia, I know, but society in the Wasteland is sometimes so backwards that these things happen.

* * *

_There she was, dreaming the same silly dream Mandy had liked to gently tease her with so much._

_Bubbles, glitter, Rococo furniture, flashy costumes, Venetian masks and David Bowie crooning in the background something about the world falling down._

_She was even dressed in that pearly, puffy princess dress the movie heroine wore in this precise scene._

_For a ten-year-old, this had been one of her favorite recurring dreams._

_For an almost eighteen-year-old, this was incredibly embarrassing._

_And now, to the chase of the beau._

** _"… There's such a fooled heart,  
Beatin' so fast  
In search of new dreams…"_ **

_It was all pretty basic, really. Taking the grand tour around the ballroom discarding masked faces until she found the one. It was fun up to some extent given that, in her dream, she could poke at random objects at her leisure, eat Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, donuts, peanut butter, hot dogs, Spanish paella, nachos and pizza as much as she wanted and shake Nuka-Cola bottles the likes of champagne to pop them open and shower the rest of the dancers with bubbly soda._

_Admittedly, these dreamlike traits had been developed with the years passing finding that pre-War packed food wasn't as yummy as it used to be and that the Nuka-Cola Vanilla flavor had seemingly disappeared from the face of the American Wasteland._

_The same the beau character had kept mutating over time._

_Most of the time it was just her subconsciousness replicating the movie and everything was fine and dandy with her at the end dancing with a fae King ridiculously costumed and ridiculously good-looking._

** _"A love that will last  
_** **_Within your heart."_ **

_But, some other times, other male figures managed to seep in._

_Sometimes it was Daddy or Big Bro, and she would awake crying in silence, her heart hurting in painful homesickness._

_Other rare times it was either her crush, dressing in his military fatigues when he was shot in front of a firing squad, or some of her men._

_And others…_

_Cheeks stuffed full of pizza, she prayed that she will not find Burke wearing his suit and tortoiseshell glasses at the end of the tour. Once had been creepy enough._

_So, she zigzagged between dancers, feeling like making a solo twirl just for the sake of it, a sudden sensation of lightheadedness washing over and swallowing her like a rising tide._

** _"I'll place the moon  
Within your heart."_ **

_Music had that kind of magic, that feeling that was atemporal even if some lyrics seemed too trite or too old-fashioned._

_Or maybe it was her, who didn't belong in a world that had forgotten what was still fresh on her memory._

_Her faulted memory._

_She thought she heard the two shots that had rendered her at the mercy of casual oblivion and turned around dreading whose unmasked face will she find wearing a checkered suit and a golden pistol pointing to her head._

** _"As the pain sweeps through…"_ **

_However, she didn't find _Maria's_ cannon against her temple and, instead of finding the forked smile of a snake, she found herself staring at the obscure glaring of a coyote._

** _"… Makes no sense for you."_ **

_But it wasn't a coyote, it was a tanned headdress and biker goggles over soft whitish curls and bleached skin._

** _"Every thrill is gone…"_ **

_She didn't know who took whose's hand and how it was possible to dance with someone dressed in football gear who was almost two heads taller than her this fluidly, but her gawking mouth won't close whereas her feet in ballerina shoes kept the leading steady rhythm of military boots._

** _"… Wasn't too much fun at all."_ **

_In a most impeccably executed dance move, he twirled her around with a hand graceful but hard as steel and her puffy dress flew around her like crazy to, ultimately, being pulled back to his arms holding her more closely and tightly than before._

** _"But I'll be there for you…"_ **

_She could see herself reflected on his goggles, unable to read much into his expression. But there was something in the way his long, calloused fingers intertwined with hers that was sending jolts of electricity to her ribcage and she couldn't help but hid her flushed face in one of his chest plates. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but it propitiated that he released the powerful grasp he had on her hand and waist so it allowed her to embrace his armored waist tightly._

_His pale arms encased her into a tight embrace and she sighed happily. He smelled of leather, sand… and blood._

** _"… As the world falls down."_ **

_And fallen did the world around them when a nuclear mushroom burst the ballroom bubble._

_Suddenly, there was no gaudy fantasy around them anymore, but Nipton's acrid fumes as he walked her to the Town Hall hand in hand._

_She didn't know how she found herself in a basement or why she was behaving so compliant when his hands started to unbutton the back of her dress._

_She felt herself strangely at peace when he aided her to get out her frilly costume, folding it delicately over a nearby chair. And she allowed him to scrub her thoroughly to get the glitter off when he came back with a bucket and a sponge, standing bare and trusting under his touch._

_There was nothing sexual in the way he was handling her, but more like as if he were preparing her for something._

_She didn't bat a lash when he stopped scrubbing her, leaving the bucket and sponge aside, produced a pair of scissors, and cut her long hair so prettily combed with silver ribbons until he left the scruffy short hairstyle she had grown so used in the last months._

_After that, he pulled over her head a piece of fabric and signaled her to raise her arms so they would fit in the tattered sleeves._

_It was a robe of sorts that reached to her knees. A crimson robe._

_Somehow, leather straps of football gear her size began to hold her shoulders, chest and waist as he kept on arranging her new outfit up to his satisfaction._

_Dazzled, she allowed him to sit her on a chair and she blushed when he knelt before her to tie the laces of her boots._

_She reached forward and, in an impulse – for dreams were all feeling and very little thought -, she pulled his coyote headdress back as if it were a hood._

_She ran freely her fingers amidst snowy curls, relishing in the sensation, until his hands found her hair as well and their heads neared one another until her lips met his._

_She knew nothing about kisses, but she found his' to be the likes of what she imagined a token from a Sicilian mafia boss would be: il Bacio della Morte._

_Once they separated, he took her hand again and led her upstairs, back out from Nipton Town Hall._

_A whole legionary army, machetes pointing up to the sky, hailed her upon her arrival._

* * *

Six didn't open her eyes upon awakening.

She had the vague notion of having slept more hours than they could permit themselves before Charon found his way throughout the old Vegas' sewer system.

She felt warm and comfortable. Her sleeping position was odd but, despite being in the sewers, the mattress under her didn't smell particularly bad.

Wait… this wasn't a mattress. Mattresses didn't breathe.

"I know you are awake, Sullivan."

She felt the whisper caressing her ear before the words' meaning found its way into her cognitive processes.

Not happy with making her blush in dreams, he had to turn her into a living tomato in real life.

She could feel her head huddled beneath his chin, her left ear resting against his throat, listening him swallowing lightly as he spoke again in her right ear.

"How do you feel?"

She surprised herself finding that she wanted to cuddle, and the struggle between resisting and doing so like an overly-loving cat was powerful.

"I could use a couple more hours of this." – her mouth betrayed her before she could catch herself.

She didn't know how a Glowing One would feel after mutation, but she bet radiation burned inside like a pyre, just like how she was the very instant she felt rather than heard him laughing quietly.

He should laugh more. Definitely.

_"'For the lazy it is always the holidays'."_ – he replied calmly, his breath tickling her ear.

"Who're you calling _'lazy'_, Theocritus?" - she retorted in mock indignation, eyes still shut, voice loud enough for his ears only.

She didn't know if it was intentional or it simply was the Universe conspiring against her, but the brief instant his lips made apparent accidental contact with the helix of her ear to speak again, she turned into a big bad puddle of treacherous hormones running amok.

If shocking, the discovery wasn't as unpleasant or dramatic as she might have feared up at some point upon awakening in this new, devastated America where such kind of feelings sounded more of a frivolity when put next to survival.

She had forgotten what was like to have the biggest, stupidest crush ever on Earth on someone. Nonetheless, the realization didn't make the experience less thrilling while, at the same time, she couldn't help but want to be swallowed by the concrete below her. Right now.

"Knowledgeable, as always." – he conceded, and she could hear the smile in his voice – "Alas, regrettable as it is, we have a road ahead to travel." – his arms started to undo their comforting embrace around her – "Can you walk?"

"Yup." – she confirmed, torn between disappointment and relief of being free to reign over her ridiculous life and hormones again.

She was the first getting up, him still getting acquainted with his legs again before risking further movement.

"Can _you_ walk?" - she echoed his previous question, eyeing him flexing his long legs a little bit before attempting to get up, prepared to catch him should he faltered.

He groaned and she was already extending her arms when he stood up quicker than thunder, promptly cracking his neck to soothe muscle ache.

"Ewwwww…" – she grimaced – "Why do you always have to do that?"

He gave her a short-lived mischievous smile that was quickly schooled back into his customary impervious expression when real life settled in again as his eyes swept over the room, silently addressing Gabban and the rest of the legionaries to start packing.

Raul caught on the general mood immediately, so he made himself useful around.

Then, Six's gaze fell upon Arcade's sitting form, recalling that she still had his glasses.

Now that he was awake, the task suddenly seemed… a bit intimidating.

She approached him and knelt by his side.

"Arcade?"

Unfocused green eyes squinted, recognizing more the voice rather than the blurry small figure in front of him for sure.

"What's up, Six?" – he said as cheerfully as a myopic man in a gloomy environment could muster – "Uh… not to press you or anything, but these guys said that you…" – before he could complete the sentence, she placed his glasses in his right hand after cleaning them a bit with the hem of her interior shirt – "Ahhh." – he sighed in relief once he put them on – _"Post tenebras lux."_ **_(1)_** – after a few blinks, he rose a brow and scrunched his nose – "Well, I'm not entirely sure I was so bad without the glasses now that I'm able to discern details." – inspecting his dusty lab coat and passing a finger over the dirty mattress he was sitting on, his scrunched nose accentuated upon discovering the dark grime he obtained as a result – "Definitely way _too many_ details." – he concluded with a dramatic sigh.

Six giggled a bit but she regretted it the instant the Followers' doctor put a hand over hers and she had to resist the impulse to squirm.

"Are you alright?" – he asked, and she hated herself when she heard the earnest worry in his voice – "Nobody has told me much besides Raul, and he spoke about something very vague in your blood…"

"Septicemia, Dr. Gannon." – _Zorro_ came to her rescue, putting in front of the physician whatever medical supplies he had managed to put up together in the last minutes. Six noticed a slight limp on his right leg – "Treated with a sterile, unopened dosage of antibiotics."

"I see." – was Arcade's response, rummaging around the doctor's bag, rearranging things his way and sighing tiredly when all the alcohol he found to use for disinfection was a bottle of vodka – "Are you really sure the medicine, as well as the needle, were clean?" – he asked, cleaning his hands with the available beverage.

Six could tell, just by looking at his terse expression, that the young man was seriously debating between giving the doctor a piece of his mind or biting his tongue.

"Well, now that you seem to be fully recovered besides getting back your spectacles, why don't you check the wound out if it worries you so?"

Not quite biting as _Zorro_ could get sometimes, but not quite gentle either.

Six saw that as a progress. She knew just how prideful her legionary could get sometimes, it was a good thing that he could abstain from antagonizing for once as she knew that Boone and Arcade were his _least_ favorites inside the group.

"Those were exactly my thoughts." – was Arcade's noncommittal answer – "Six, raise your shirt and show me the exact infection entry point."

Not to mention that, whereas Boone was relatively easy to outsmart in wordplay, Arcade was more than _Zorro's_ match on such a battlefield.

It didn't help that the Follower was also fluent in Latin.

"Very neat bandaging." – the blonde doctor praised mildly, unwrapping enough to take a look but not getting the work completely undone – "Hmmm… everything seems in order." – he added, prodding the tender pink edges of the almost-healed wound softly with his fingers – "Does this hurt, Six?"

She shook her head.

"Very good, the wound seems clean and you don't seem to have any fever remnants or other symptoms that would speak of infection." – he declared after checking her pupils with his pen lantern – "Now you." – he added, directing his gaze to _Zorro_, who froze mid-movement packing rations and ammo on one of the available travel bags from his men – "You're limping." – he said as an explanation – "Besides, Raul told me you also took the brunt of a building collapse on both of your legs."

_Zorro_ directed a frowning stare to the ghoul, who raised his skinned hands in surrender, but did as told and, approaching again, rolled up the legs of his pants for the medic to see.

"I could assess better the extent of the damage if you took your pants off, you know."

Neither Arcade nor Six were expecting the sudden curt laugh the legionary directed to the medic.

"Ha!" – he scoffed dryly, his severe countenance and his crossed arms a clear indication of his thoughts on the matter – "Apologies, Dr. Gannon, but that is not going to happen any time soon."

Arcade adjusted his glasses before blinking twice.

"Suit yourself." – he replied, shrugging off the indirect insult, clearly not in the mood to argue with a stubborn twenty-year-old – "Let's see…" – he muttered, eyeing the scarred pattern filled with recent healing hematomas – _"This…"_ – he punctuated after touching a particularly huge swollen vein over _Zorro's_ right knee that made the young man hiss in pain – "… is why you _don't_ use Stimpacks without immobilizing broken bones with either a ferule or a splint so they don't create varicose tissue around the impact zone or cure bones and tissue in a poor manner. You're lucky it hasn't healed completely, for you would have gotten crappy blood circulation and a limp for the rest of your life. I'm going to have to reopen the swollen tissue, drain part of the leftover blood, seal veins and realign the kneecap with…" – he trailed off until his eyes found a nailed board dropped on a corner along with many other makeshift weapons – "That could work. Six." – he added, giving her the vodka bottle and a piece of cloth – "Take the nails out, cut it in two, clean it, and bring the two pieces to me. Raul." – he added, looking at the ghoul – "Start cutting bandages. And you…" – he trailed off again, directing this time his gaze towards Gabban, who had remained silent beside his brother, eyeing the damage with apprehension – "I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Gabriel."

"Alright, Gabriel. I'm going to need you to act as a hold for _Zorro Salvaje_ as we don't have Med-X and this is gonna hurt."

Directing a questioning glance to his brother, Gabban did as told once _Zorro_ nodded in acquiescence.

The procedure was, quite literally, _spartan_. With _Zorro_ sat on the floor as Arcade trusted more the concrete than the nitty mattresses, the medic had punctured swollen veins open with a sterilized, heated needle and had diminished blood pressure by draining them minimally before sealing the vein by puncturing yet again with yet another sterilized needle, this time red hot.

Everything accomplished with reused medical equipment and an electric welder from the workbench.

Whereas _Zorro_ was eyeing the procedure unshaken, Six could tell that the rest of the legionaries - especially Gabban, whose face seemed drained of all color – weren't having an easy time.

"Shit, Fox!" – the blonde young man exclaimed when his older brother forced him to look by means of pinching his forearm hard.

"Don't close your eyes and _learn_." – was _Zorro's _soft yet firm chiding – "Knowledge is power."

"Sir Francis Bacon." – Arcade intervened conversationally – "Wouldn't have pegged you for a philosopher."

"You don't know me well enough to peg me for anything, doctor."

Arcade raised his eyes from the butchering he was performing momentarily before returning to his task.

"Fair enough." – was his laconic reply.

After that, while Six had occupied her eyes and hands sawing the cleaned wooden board with a borrowed saw (pertaining, yet again, to the crude workbench the legionaries had at their disposition, which was basic at best), Arcade had worked the kneecap around until he had found where it had realigned bad due to the previous manipulation of the femur and twisted it until he found its correct position.

_Zorro_ had grunted _that way_ again, and Six's hands had trembled with conflicted feelings around the now-cleaned, divided wooden boards she had helped Arcade to adjust and bandage around the bone.

"Now, we sew the cuts." – Arcade announced, evidently pleased to see that the young men around were attempting to learn from his expertise – "And then, _after_ having everything bandaged and sealed, we use the Stimpacks in small dosages around swollen tissue, not right into an open wound. Yes?"

No matter his slightly patronizing tone, Six knew _Zorro_ was taking good note of everything.

She could only imagine how scarce healers would be in a culture that, besides stemming from tribal natural remedies' mashing up, plainly forbid chems.

Their Lord, this… Caesar. Why would a Western man create a society out of mostly ignorant people to deprive them of basics as human dignity and healthcare?

And so, besides militarily speaking… did he had institutionalized a law system beyond the survival of the fittest? With judges and lawyers? Did he had alphabetized all of them or just agents as _Zorro_ and his men who had to wade through enemy territory?

Up until now, she hadn't realized… just how different _Zorro's_ world vision must be from hers.

Timeline, culture, upbringing, education… those very things she had always taken for granted seemed now a privilege in a Wasteland where, throughout the years she had wandered from East to West, she had discovered that not just half the people could barely read, but they were also… conditioned.

Conditioned by a world her contemporaries had created in the first place.

She had been so single-minded in her pursuit of trustworthy allies that now, in her folly choosing a tribal as a friend, she hadn't considered… that maybe it wasn't his fault for being who he was, but hers putting an individual so different from her and the others as the day and night in the group.

Could she expect a tribal from a slave army to fully understand how occidental minds worked?

Could she dare hope for him to…?

"And that's it!" – Arcade's triumphant exclamation awakened her from her reverie – "Finished." – he added, eyeing his handiwork with pride – "Give the Stimpacks thirty minutes while everyone else finishes packing, and you should be as good as new."

Six's heart gave a painful squeeze when she looked at Gabban and the others and saw pure and unadulterated wonder about what they had just witnessed.

Medical care was, for them, a huge mystery.

Which was further confirmed when the mulatto legionary, _Fénec_, asked Arcade if he could take a look at his bandaged arms with big eyes and a sort of religious awe when the blonde doctor began to give him indications about how to disinfect wounds and which was the best treatment for skin affected with radiation.

Six sat hip to hip with _Zorro_ as he had asked her to bring him supplies so he could be of use distributing them in their backpacks while she checked the condition of the available guns and ammo.

"What's our next move?" - she asked while cleaning a Silenced .22 SMG, a dangerous weapon that the Fiends, since their occupation in Vault 3, had gotten a hold on a handful of them – "I've never been in the city's sewers, thus, I have no maps that can help us moving around here."

"This project about dabbling through Vegas' sewer system was something my precursor started a few years back, but soon got discarded as there wasn't found any viable entrance to the Strip that wasn't blocked by rubble." – his voice was so low that Six almost didn't catch his slight hesitation before continuing – "However, except for Robert House's territory, the rest of New Vegas is fairly well-connected from Camp McCarran to The Thorn. The challenge will be to pass again through the Central Sewers to the Northern ones and, once there, decide which exit is of more convenience: the manhole that leads to the Crimson Caravans' entrance or the one at the East Pump Station."

"What about McCarran?" - she asked, but _Zorro_ shook his head.

"My brother has informed me that our ghoul persecutor entered Freeside through the Strip North Gate and not the other way around. That can only lead to one possibility…" – he explained, looking at her intently as if to see if she reached the same conclusion as him.

She did.

"That he gained access through the monorail." – she realized, suddenly feeling very ill – "You think…?"

"… That McCarran is a direct accomplice regarding you being now on a very prioritized hitlist?" – he finished for her – "Absolutely."

She covered her mouth both in terrible realization and to impede vomiting as well.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Sullivan?"

She wasn't prepared for this; she would have never considered that the NCR…

But then, looking back at the circumstances and the fact that her contact when the Platinum Chip _fiasco_ had been _precisely_ stationed at McCarran, everything seemed to fall in place.

Even if Colonel Hsu hadn't been aware of the loose end he had on one of his Sergeants, this irregularity shouldn't have been possible if, amidst lost paperwork, McCarran hadn't given its seal of approval for Charon to access the most impenetrable part of New Vegas.

Where Robert House had given her a place to stay.

There was also the possibility of _Zorro_ lying for his political benefit.

But looking at him, and seeing how sincere he sounded and how logical his chain of thought was, she knew she had to trust him. And she wanted to.

It was either that or leading them in the dark throughout unknown territory risking the chance of facing Charon once again without even informing her allies why they were running.

Besides, if the NCR ended becoming the enemy now, perhaps the Legion could offer a better alternative…?

Not that she wouldn't prefer House above everyone else… but she wasn't getting herself killed and she, certainly, wasn't going back to Burke's side. Never again.

_Not when you have no further need of me anymore, is it not that right, Birdie?_

Six's eyes widened when, intrusive, the thought made something resound deep inside her.

Where did that come from?!

_Oh, dear, deluding ourselves again, do we? As if you didn't know it already._

No…

_That every time you have allied with someone…_

Enough…

_… Has been to draw a deal where you'll always hold the upper hand._

Enough!

_It is a pattern you learned well from your time on the Vault, how to pick the best among the best on the simulators while leaving the others, less fitted to resist the training, to be brain-killed once the scores were drawn at the end of each round._

ENOUGH!

_A pattern you have flawlessly replicated with the children on the Lamplight Caverns, the supermutant from Vault 87, the very Enclave, and _Littlehorn & Associates_. It was only natural for you to do the same to me… as well as you will do with these fools that accompany you… in due time._

She hadn't noticed that the heels of her hands were sinking deep into her burning eye sockets whereas her teeth were drawing blood from the gums as she gnashed them viciously.

The same she hadn't noticed how wiry though tender pale arms had encased her into a soothing embrace.

He wasn't telling her that everything will be alright or any of that nonsense. He was only holding her in place, lending whatever comfort his body could offer her, anchoring her to reality… from where she seemed more and more divorced as memories assaulted her at the least ideal moments.

_The question is, Birdie, dearest: what will you do if Robert Edwin House ends being unable to counter my offer? What if the old man's databases and resources aren't as extensive as he has implied? Will you come back to me? Will you be able to sell your little friend here and his fellow tribals to the New California Republic so they can do to them unspeakable things on their torture chambers? Remember who he is… how easy would be to lure him to McCarran and tell Hsu that here's the Legion Head of Intelligence for them to wring him out as much as they please? Wouldn't that earn you an official pardon? The Republic's protection against my political maneuvers? What do you think, my dear girl?_

No… please, no…

_What would you give in exchange for knowing… where is the Vault where your brother and his family were sent, soldier?_

* * *

Huffing and groaning, Rose of Sharon Cassidy cursed for the umpteenth time as her back protested in retaliation of what had become the longest trip ever to the Old Mormon Fort as she dragged inelegantly through the broken asphalt what roughly might be two hundred pounds of pure muscle and sheer stupidity.

"Shit, Beret…" – she hissed between clenched teeth, rivulets of sweat and blood dripping from the tip of her nose and chin as she kept mumbling – "This isn't how I pictured to have your candy ass knocked down at my mercy…"

Once the Stimpack had settled down her system well enough for being able to walk without wincing too much, she had gotten her ass up and, rifle in hand, had spied the perimeter before telling Phenomenon Kid to follow her in silence as she searched for the rest of their group.

Nighttime had slowly crept over Vegas, and Cassidy's tired eyes had nearly missed him.

The boy and she had found lots of debris, lots of unknown charred body parts… and the unconscious body of Boone filled with blisters on his torso and arms nestled between two fallen boulders.

It had been a pain in the ass to get him out of the fallen debris and now, it was becoming a pain in general to drag him to the hands of the Followers with half the streetlamps blinking non-stop in a near-empty, gloomy Freeside.

Because nobody around, tightly shut-in their homes, had answered her reiterated calls for help even when it was clear that the necrotic monster was nowhere to be seen.

Crap-Pants, the lot of Freeside.

The kid, however, was walking beside her carrying the sniper's rifle, beret and sunglasses on his tiny arms. The humongous trashy backpack he had insisted on carrying from the 188 still intact on his back.

"How interesting…" – the kid murmured as his small fingers swept over the three items on his arms absently – "It's rare to find belongings that have both happy and angry memories attached." – then, he added – "Though quiet, this man's belongings speaks volumes for him and the very words he will never be able to convey…"

"Not to burst your bubble, kid." – Cass grunted – "But right now, the only thing I am interested in is to take this motherfucker's sweet ass to a doctor, not to hear about his communication issues; which are plenty, by the way."

She was starting to believe that the boy's apparently random words were not so random after all.

And that was a scary thought.

Sure that she could appreciate Six's kind gesture about bringing a homeless child to a secure haven… however, somehow, she couldn't help but notice that Six usually didn't choose people randomly.

The person she wanted on her team, the person she ended adding in sooner or later. Cass's own example being the most prominent of all.

Six had wanted her, and she hadn't stopped until she had convinced her to join.

Just the same that man, the legend from Arroyo, the Chosen One, had done with her father, John Cassidy.

Whereas that sentiment had been flattering at first, now it was starting to take a very different perspective.

Because every single one of them were _useful_ people, not scared-out, drug-addicted Wasteland pissants willing to bow head in front of someone bigger, badder and meaner than them.

Not even this kid was completely shielded from whatever _usefulness_ Six could get from him.

That both scared her and made her angry the same. Kids weren't meant to be tools in some complicated scheme, kids were meant to play with their pals and be protected by adults… until they reached adulthood and they choose how to fuck up their lives, that is.

Pretty much as she did, back on her adolescent days.

"Don't chase after phantoms, Miss Cassidy." – the boy chastised her gently, earning a small shudder from the woman, both due to physical strain and creepiness – "Everyone has a role to fulfill in this war, and the Courier's intentions have nothing to do with the chain of events that my presence on the Beacon of the Mojave will unleash, in due time. Whereas she thinks she had chosen me, I chose her before."

Okay, maybe it was about time to stop humoring cryptic speech from the boy and starting knocking on the Old Mormon Fort's door as their interminable walk had come to an end.

"Open the door!" – she exclaimed, her entire being aching as her fist found the giant wooden door – "I have a child and a wounded man with me that needs medical attention urgently!"

She swore she could hear coughs and choked murmurs inside. But nobody answered her call, nor they did open the door despite the good ten minutes she spent waiting.

That made her already thin patience wear to an almost nonexistent plane.

"OPEN THE GODDAMNED DOOR, ASSHOLES!" – she yelled, punches and kicks landing all over the unyielding wooden structure as if she could take it down with her mere strength – "A SMALL BOY AND A WOUNDED MAN ARE DROPPED IN FRONT OF YOUR DOORSTEP AND YOUR ANSWER IS PLAYING DEAF?! YOU HAVE NO FUCKING HUMAN DIGNITY!" – as incensed as she was yelling to a stupid door, she hadn't noticed the telltale sounds of locks being pulled – "YOU KNOW WHAT?!: FUCK YOU! FUCK ALL THOSE BOOK PRINCIPLES THAT, WHEN THEY FACE REALITY, THEY'RE NOTHING BUT FANCY WORDS! TO HOLD A WASTELAND SOMETIMES IS TO DEFEND IT! AND WHAT HAVE YOU MORONS DONE TO DEFEND THOSE YOU SAY THEY NEED YOUR HELP UNTIL TODAY, HMMM?! NOTHING!"

Her fury, her reddened face and her angry, unshed tears met a pair of familiar arms that engulfed her midsection until she stopped resisting it to actually look at its source.

"Cass!" – Veronica's hands cupped her face gently, shedding away the incredibly disgusting mixture of dirty hair, ashes, blood, sweat and tears as if they were the most precious things to lie touch upon – "Are you alright?!"

Her words deflated the fiery redhead's tantrum down to a point that she had to rely on the Scribe's lesser height for physical support.

She barely registered how the wooden gates of the Mormon Fort opened slowly, how a disorganized group of seven armed guards pointed their rifles, first to the hugging pair, then to the gigantic silhouette with a picture hat and goggles that was calmly waiting aside, the small Asian boy on one humongous hand, the other holding delicately the unconscious figure of an NCR ex-First Recon. Two babies on her arms in contrast to her voluminous body.

And a menace-looking cyberdog calmly sitting at the mutant's feet, poised and alert should any danger might arise.

After verifying their identities as cohorts from the Courier's group, four people came out to take Boone from Lily's arms while securing his neck with an orthopedic collar, checking out his pulse and hoisting him on a makeshift stretcher to take him inside.

Nobody dared to talk with the Nightkin until Julie Farkas's mohawk came on view as she asked politely for all of them to get inside the Mormon Fort as soon as possible.

Veronica moved her form along with Cass' slowly inside, where the door locks came down again immediately.

And Cass didn't give a shit about standing in front of an audience while holding onto someone for support.

It had been a long time… since she had trusted someone else with her weakness enough to drop the mask and allow herself to be vulnerable for once.

Veronica seemed to understand this and they, synchronized as only two beating hearts could, allowed for all the anxiety to dissipate in each other's embrace.

"Have you… seen the others?" – was the first thing that came up Cassidy's lips, her hold still strong around Veronica's shoulders – "Do you know… where Six is? Raul? Doc? Grams? Tribal Boy? The dog?"

"Lily and Rex are here and they're okay." – Veronica said soothingly, signaling her quiet companions now by her left. The boy now sitting on one of Lily's muscled shoulders, nuzzling the supermutant's hard jaw, the big grandma allowing herself being loved docilely – "Six, Raul and Jimmy were together last time I saw them… running away from that guy."

Cass allowed herself to shudder, still recalling the monstrous ghoul with that monstrous grenade launcher.

"What about Doc?" – she finally dared to ask – "Where's Doc?"

Veronica's lower lip trembled slightly.

"I… don't know." – she muttered, trying very hard not to tear up – "I haven't seen him since we got separated. Lily, Rex and I searched, and searched… but we couldn't find you or the others…" – Veronica's embrace tightened so much that Cass was briefly tempted to tell her to loosen up down a notch until the Scribe's voice came back broken – "What are we gonna do, Cass? What are we gonna do?"

Already calmed, Cassidy's mind started to work at full speed, weighting chances, ruling out possibilities and places.

"We get Red Beret patched and up before the sun rises." – she declared with finality, deadly calmed – "Then, we go on a hunt."

* * *

He had omitted important information. He had omitted to mention the chance of a path existing right to the Ultra-Luxe's lower levels.

Right to the safety of the Strip and Mr. House's securitrons.

Why he had done it, it was merely because he wanted her to have only rely upon him and his knowledge of the city sewers.

And to avoid giving the chance either to McCarran or to House to shelter her again, to offer her better protection than the Legion could offer her.

Better than what _he_ could offer her.

Blaming the NCR for the ghoul slip had been but an added plus.

Then why it felt so treacherous doing so?

As they threaded through the Northwest part of the sewers, Vulpes couldn't stop analyzing his take on the matter.

He wasn't stranger to dishonesty, having learned from the best how to pull a stunt and follow through till the end. As long as it benefited the Legion, thus Caesar, it didn't matter if he even had to lie to his own men so long as it served a higher purpose.

So, why he was doubting himself now?

Recalling her slender form nestled in his arms, her head resting under his chin, her smaller hands wandering idly in her delirium until they had bunched up on the front of his shirt… he tried to remember a time when he had been more relaxed and at peace with himself.

He tried to remember a time when he had felt happier than since he had joined her group.

And he found that those feelings hadn't converged very often since the assimilation.

He had forgotten... how it felt to sleep without worrying what tomorrow may have in store. To plan the next course of action, to brew the next scheme.

He had forgotten how to live without fearing for his life. Without dreading the moment he ceased being useful to get discarded in the most gruesome manner so his death could serve as an example. Such as the Malpais _Legatus'_.

He had forgotten how it was to live without feeling thankful for being allowed to live.

So, as a consequence, once tasted the forbidden fruit, it was quite hard getting rid of its sweet poison. Painful even.

But poison it was, nonetheless. Of that, thankfully, he was still aware.

The Courier's… no, Sullivan's skin was soft, her hair softer, and her breath when she slept, even softer.

She was tempting, very tempting - and he admitted that he was hooked, very hooked.

But he still had his priorities in place.

Why should he doubt, of misleading this soft creature temporally so both could end holding hands at the gates of the new Status Quo?

When she saw how much they have achieved together, she would forgive him for these insignificant lies and share in the common good.

And maybe…

Upon reaching the Western part of the North Sector of the sewers, his thoughts were brought on a halt as soon as the Black Market came into view.

"Well, this is…" – the blonde doctor intervened upon entering the ample space, his voice denoting stupor – "I don't know how to qualify this."

A sort of clandestine submerged economy, the poorer and more desperate part of outer New Vegas' citizens – mostly composed of drug-addicts, old prostitutes, beggars, destitute farmers and the old, sick and crippled – were now the new underground inhabitants from the filthiest, most diseased, shadiest part of Sin City. And it wasn't only due to the absence of sunlight on such a risky unhygienic environment.

For the Black Market was, more than anything, a perfect place to obtain stolen, illegal merchandise not even the most disreputable pawnshop on the Freeside would risk selling.

As Vulpes and Gabban opened the entourage, stalls composed mostly of rusty pieces of metal sloppily nailed to rotten wooden boards offered questionable wares that varied from fried meats of dubious sources to scavenged NCR uniforms and weapons obtained, pretty surely, from the corpses the Fiends left at the Southern entrance of McCarran on a daily basis. Bloodstains and bullet holes still present on the coarse fabrics.

Though admittedly expensive for their lamentable state and real market value, Vulpes' men had benefited greatly from these scavenged wares throughout the years during the Mojave Campaign, making possible to have the Republic's Main Headquarters conveniently controlled as many Frumentarii were now infiltrated within the walls of the old pre-War airport.

As of late, as the war advanced with the Legion pushing from the borders of the Colorado the very instant a Fox took on the Serpent's many responsibilities, the wares had but multiplied in number and quality, making many Prospectors game for the growing market as they were the main providers of weapons and equipment they took from lost patrols that had succumbed under Legion's boot the closer they dared to dabble East.

Gabban was used dealing with the local merchants and information-sellers, but it was Vulpes' first time setting foot directly on the Black Market to seek information.

One of their men, whom they had been expected to encounter there, was sorely missing.

If Felix wasn't roaming the Black Market or the immediate manholes connected to the Westside, the situation required their attention.

So, Gabban went to see their usual source whereas the rest took a small tour around, his Frumentarii unusually jumpy whereas Vulpes couldn't help but notice the many eyes that were looking on their direction.

"Call me paranoid, but I don't like the attention we're gathering here." – Gannon interceded once more, his voice low and his nervous hands reaching for his plasma pistol in a most unsubtle manner.

_"Sí."_ – Raul confirmed – "They're eyeing the _chamaquitos_ way too much." **_(A)_**

Vulpes checked his rifle, Cassidy's knife and the switchblade he had inside one of his armor's sleeves. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sullivan, soft Sullivan, doing the same with her 10mm.

Gabban returned wearing a disheartened expression after checking his sources.

"Nobody has seen him." – he informed Vulpes once he was close enough for being able to understand each other talking in whispers – "There have been sightings of more Fiends in the area, though. And one of the minor gangs down here, the Greasers, have but vanished without leaving a trace. I don't like this, Fox." – he added, including with his eyes the rest of the legionaries – "_Félix_ wouldn't have abandoned his post without a good reason."

"Felix?" – Gannon's voice interrupted them – "As in the Latin name?"

Uh, oh.

But damn if Gabban hadn't a training as good as Vulpes' when it came to keeping the composure under pressure.

"Huh?" – he said, feigning ignorance – "La-what? No, doctor, _Félix_ is a Spanish name. Right, Miguel?" – he asked, adding Cassius to the conversation.

The big young man nodded.

"We're from the same tribe." – he told the Follower, his face amiable. Cassius being one of Vulpes' men with the rare quality of being _genuinely_ friendly while using it to his advantage – "_Félix_ is my cousin."

They were being careful enough to give the name its original pronunciation as Felix had been one of the few lucky ones that, since the assimilation, hadn't changed his name.

That seemed to assuage the doctor's - unbeknownst to him – well-founded fears as they disposed their steps towards the exit that communicated the Black Market to the Eastern part of the North Vegas Sewers. Once they would be out of earshot, they could decide what to do next.

As they passed in front of many other stalls offering even more dubious wares, Vulpes caught sight of a caged Glowing One, whose bright skeletal naked frame was crouched inside their prison, eyeing with milky, distant bloated eyes the new arrivals from the other side of the bars.

Raul cursed in Spanish between rotten teeth as his eyes took on the unhappy caged creature with wrath and compassion in equal measures.

_"No hay derecho,_ Boss, _no hay derecho…"_ **_(B)_** – he kept hissing between clenched teeth whereas Sullivan patted him slightly on the small of his back, still tense but trying to bring comfort and support to her companion's sensitivities.

When they passed a shady corner, a small, dirty old woman approached them and Gabban was about to shove aside the predictable charity-asking platitude that usually came from those folks when said woman gave him a smile full of brown, rotten teeth.

"You want to know what happened to your friend, yes?" – she asked with a voice so hoarse that the Master Frumentarius wondered briefly if that was the result of a chain-smoking vice. Her rotten teeth and discolored lips, middle and index fingers seemed to suggest so – "How much do you pay?"

Vulpes disliked her almost immediately. Her dirty hair was combed in a way that reminded him too much of the late Twisted Hairs.

"It depends on the information." – Gabban answered for him, still on charge – "Give me a price, and I'll decide if what you offer deserves my time and my money."

Vulpes felt a slight surge of pride as he heard his brother directing the situation to his benefit, bargaining effortlessly without demonstrating impatience or rudeness. He had taught him well.

They discussed rates a little bit - the woman accepting half the exorbitant sum she had asked first - her information, after been paid a little money advance as an incentive, proving worrying.

Apparently, Felix had been missing for nearly three days since the last time Gabban checked on him. The woman swore having watched an organized group of Fiends coming and going several times throughout the East Central Sewers, using the tunnels under the Sharecropper Farms to the Western part of the North Sewers, sometimes daring to enter the space under the North Vegas Square and the tunnels under The Gray. They usually came to the Black Market exchanging stolen wares for drugs. Many of the locals were getting nervous despite that none of the chem-addicted raiders had bothered anyone beyond clearing up small gangs. They suspected a raid coming as soon as they got enough men to subjugate them.

She also told them that many suspected that the junkies were filling a big lair somewhere between the East and Central Sewers.

If Felix was still alive, the Fiends had taken a hold on him. And they rarely kept prisoners if not to obtain a ransom in exchange or… for their private amusement.

Upon hearing this news, Vulpes hoped Felix would be already dead instead of being used as a… _plaything_ for those psychopaths.

Nonetheless, the Legion couldn't tolerate an affront of this magnitude and the Master Frumentarius had to act as an example for his men.

So they decided to, at least, take a peek on the Eastern part of the sewers to get a feel on the field and decide later how to proceed. The Fiends would pay, either now or later with more men at his disposition, wasn't relevant.

To Raul and Gannon's benefit, he made up a story that wasn't so far from the actual truth about a member of their tribal-remnants gang going missing and suspecting the Fiends' involvement on it.

The doctor and the ghoul bought it immediately, offering to help; Sullivan limited herself to direct him a knowing glance, silently acquiescing to act in the name of the Legion's interests.

He liked that. A lot.

What he didn't like was when a large gang of scruffy armed wastrels surrounded them, sandwiching their group inside one of the tunnels that connected the Black Market with the rest of the North Sewers.

This had been a trap all along, as he identified some of the gang's members having been at the underground market both as sellers and clients.

"Give us yer caps, yer supplies, yer weapons and ammo, and tha fancy electronics on tha wrists ov' those two." – the one who, evidently, was the leader, spoke while signaling Sullivan and Vulpes himself.

His first instinct was to enter on V.A.T.S. Mode, but soon the _Summus_ Frumentarius' blood froze in his veins when the human trash in front of him spoke again.

"'Ctually, ye know wha'? We wanna tha carriers ov' tha fancy electronics 's well. Tha kid too." – he demanded with a crooked grin, all of his canines missing, eyeing both Titus and the Courier hungrily – "Coulda use sum fresh holes 'round." – Vulpes knew he had bared fangs instinctually to the bastard but, as soon as his hand went for Cassidy's knife, a disgusting woman beside the man added:

"We will fetch a decent price for the albino at The Gray." – she commented, leering at the young man disgustingly – "He's pretty. Still fuckable even after the local shamans will be done with his tongue and fingers."

Vulpes didn't know what happened but, before he could react, his brain barely registered two shots and the woman and the leader each sported a hole between the brows. The bodies dropping instantaneously on the wet sewage floor.

Sullivan had put herself between him and the wastrels, her small hands trembling with rage around her aimed 10mm.

As if it had been an accorded signal, Raul, Gannon, Gabban and the men had quickly formed a circle around Vulpes and, taking advantage of the gang's momentary stupor, emptied bullet magazines non-stop until there had been no-one left standing.

The synchrony had been beautiful, pure magic.

"I'm not exactly a mercenary." – the good doctor commented once it was over, eyeing with disgust the piles of bloodied bodies mixed with fresh radioactive goo melting flesh away slowly. His usually mediocre aim had proven lethal this time – "But taking out scumbags of this magnitude wouldn't cause me to lose any sleep."

Sullivan was still trembling in front of Vulpes, his hand freezing mid-action putting over her shoulder when she turned around without looking at anything or anyone in particular.

A thin trail of blood that went from one of her nostrils to her lips had colored her teeth in red. Her dark eyes were cold when she spoke again.

"Raul." – she said, abnormally calm – "Let's go free that Glowing One."

The Mexican ghoul smiled coldly, raised his twin revolvers mutely and, without uttering a word, both marched back to the Black Market, Gannon hot on their heels.

Gabban questioned him briefly with his eyes, awaiting orders.

Vulpes' answer was taking _Paciencia_ from his back while pulling the safety mechanism from the gun, going after Sullivan and her group. His men followed him without question.

The galvanic gaze of his brother hung heavy on his back.

* * *

Boone jolted awake drenched in sweat.

Unused as his eyes were to any direct light, he accused immediately the absence of his sunglasses when the artificial bulb over him pierced his retinas, going straight to his skull as if he were experiencing one of his usual hangovers after a tad too many beers.

"Here." – a soft, infantile voice by his right whispered before tiny pale hands deposited the blessed tinted crystals of his aviator glasses on his eyes, adjusting the steely rods on his temples, behind his ears – "Darkness is not good for you; for you're missing just how bright and beautiful the world around you can be. But you need your eyes sharp to search for the one that gave you a new reason to be still alive."

Boone's gaze focused, and the strangely wisened features of the Asian boy came into view.

"Where's…?" – he breathed, noticing his shaved head coming in direct contact with the pillow below his nape. With _nothing_ coming in-between.

Again, the boy's soft tiny hands stretched the beret's base around his cranium. With each part of himself becoming one again, Boone's headache began diminishing.

"War is not good for you, for war never changes, but it changes the men and women who partake on it. And war has changed you, sullied you beyond repair." – the child calmly discoursed again – "But you need the symbol of your rank around your head to remind you who you are… and what you're capable of."

The sniper slowly got up, his boots coming in contact with the rocky floor of what he identified to be the inner quarters of the Old Mormon Fort.

He felt tight bandages around his arms and torso, the slight itchiness reminding him of the burns he had sustained. He retired the needle on his left forearm, letting it hang from the empty intravenous RadAway bag on a nearby IV pole. The pristine bandages around his forearm tinting with red pearls.

"My rifle." – whereas he had intended to formulate it as a question, it had come out as an order. A command.

He worked better with commands.

His office weapon was put soundlessly over his firm lap.

When he got a grasp on it, the boy's small hands came over his'.

"Death and violence are not good for you." – the boy dictated, his words strangely hypnotic, even to the gruff Republican, who was a firm disbeliever of these kinds of things. The oblique eyes profound, the human contact between their hands almost reverential – "For death and violence have been the ones who have taken you to this point: away from your home, away from your family, away from your friends. Away from the light you shield against behind a wall constructed with pain and guilt." – taking his little hands out of his', he added lastly – "But you need a gun to fight. You need a gun to live. You need a gun to defend those who count on you." – he pointed to the wooden stairs with his tranquil eyes – "Go. They're waiting for you."

Taking in the strange child one last time, Boone nodded, got on his two feet and put his gun over his shoulder, taking the steps a story down firmly.

His mood darkened a bit when he noticed the group's members that were missing once Veronica spotted him and woke the tumbleweed up, who was dozing off a bit sitting on a chair.

**"Hello, dearie."** – Lily greeted him as tenderly as she could muster; the dog coming to him immediately, seeking scratching, which he hadn't any problem to provide – **"Good to see you have woken up."**

Boone nodded on the Nightkin's direction, thanking silently that she was still with them.

"This is it?" – he asked after a brief silence – "All of us?"

The Scribe gave him a sad look, but the redhead gave him a straight answer.

"Yes, Beret." – she said gravelly – "This is all of us… for now."

Boone nodded.

"Where to?" – he asked.

"The city sewers." – Veronica answered this time, her voice laced with emotion – "When I was looking for the rest, I came up to a blown-up manhole entrance. I saw Six with Raul, Jimmy and more people running away from that ghoul before I knocked him up. I think they managed to escape him through the city's sewage system. Otherwise, I would have found their corpses."

Vegas' sewer tunnels… Boone had never braved their dark secrets, but he had known some NCR guys who had. There was a whole population living underground. And not always the friendly kind.

Raul and the albino shit better were taking care of the girlie… or he will be _very_ mad once he found them.

"Arcade?" – he asked, already dreading the answer.

"MIA." - replied the redhead, Veronica casting him a defeated look.

That was of little consolation, giving that, from his experience, Boone knew very well that _"Missing In Action"_ usually went hand in hand with _"pulverized"._

He saw enough of that at Bitter Springs, after all.

"Okay." – he replied instead. Focus, he needed to focus – "What's the plan?"

* * *

The Black Market was in shambles.

After following the Courier and her two cohorts back to the ample space, she had started shooting at the ceiling, yelling for everyone who would listen to her that she was about to confiscate the wares from the merchants that had attacked them and releasing the caged Glowing One and any other entity she deemed slave. That anyone who wanted to remain alive, better abandoned the place… or face the consequences.

She had warned the wastrels once, next had come the gunfire.

Between the Mexican ghoul and her, they had opened the door from the cage where the Glowing One had been held prisoner.

After that, Hell had ensued.

The waves of radiation coming from the creature had hit hard the ones brave or foolish enough to pose any resistance.

And Vulpes had kept putting bullets through flesh like no tomorrow.

Gabban had found, to his much chagrin, that, while he approved of the justice the Courier had brought upon one of the seediest parts of the Mojave… he didn't approve of what she was turning his brother into.

Under other circumstances, Vulpes' answer to what had transpired on the tunnels would have been colder, methodical, more focused on obtaining results at any cost.

Perhaps repeating the Nipton move by means of gathering the merchants and clients and question them one by one, punishing the ones who would dare to lie to his face, and rewarding the ones who would strike deals with the Legion in exchange for keeping their miserable lives.

Gabban would have supported, and even _approved_ of this proceeding.

That was how a Frumentarius would have acted.

But this? They had not only crippled severely a steady information point, thus making it unavailable for future operations; but they had also made a statement: slavery wasn't tolerable anymore, even with those deemed as sub-humans. And it was the Legion proclaiming it!

True that this would also send the message that Caesar's Legion wasn't to be trifled with. That them legionaries – again - were strong and they, wastrels, were weak.

And, perhaps, that the infamous Courier Six now worked for them.

Even if that statement was, in fact, quite the opposite.

As he had helped with the gunfight, Gabban had observed that Vulpes, whereas focused and lethal, seemed totally on Cloud Nine.

Gabban had never seen his brother being this _ecstatic_ since they were children.

And the worst part of all was that the rest of the Frumentarii seemed equally infected by his enthusiasm, aiding in the fight without sticking to their usual group organization, but blending in with the Profligates' own formation.

And there, directing the attack as if she were their Commander, the Courier Six's ire reigning ablaze; director of her own orchestra.

Once the deal was done, still panting from the effort, the girl had turned around, searching with her dark eyes until she had met Vulpes', who had given her a very out-of-character _stupid_ grin whereas she had directed him an _even stupider_ grin whilst she cleaned her nosebleed carelessly with a sleeve.

They looked like there was nobody else in the room but them.

They weren't touching each other, but Gabban bet that, given the opportunity, none of them would oppose the idea _at all._

This was _wrong._ So, so incredibly wrong…

Desperate to find some support, Gabban was momentarily relieved when he saw Cassius' expression upon watching them together, as if he and Gabban were the only ones getting it, for the rest seemed totally oblivious of their boss' absorption with his target, hollering in celebration for their victory.

Nonetheless, the heat of the moment, blessedly, was brought down to a stop when the ghoul came accompanied with the Glowing One, now completely docile once the market space had been cleared.

"Boss." – the necrotic called – "I know that we should get a move on and all of that, but… I cannot leave her here."

"Her?" – was the sarcastic, almost dismissive question Ignatius posed, crossing his arms, a scoff in his tongue as he eyed the creature with unconcealed revulsion.

But the ghoul frowned, glaring at the legionary, who seemed to falter for a second. Clearly, the old man knew a thing or two about instigating respect.

"Yes,_ her."_ – the ghoul replied unflinching, hard – "This is a _señorita_ you're talking about. A _señorita_ who has defeated the majority of those bastards single-handedly, so show her the respect and deference she deserves."_ **(C)**_

The Frumentarii exchanged looks, bewildered.

That… _thing_… emaciated, balding and corpse-like as it was, didn't look like a woman at all to them.

In fact, considering that sub-human as a woman couldn't be more ridic…

However, Gabban's thoughts were brusquely cut in half when Cassius took his jacket off and offered it silently to the naked Glowing One.

The creature eyed the offering almost with fear; her eyes white, but now more focused than before, looked at the necrotic by her side as if asking.

The Mexican ghoul nodded, and she took the offering, covering her glowing flesh, nodding in acknowledgment.

That a creature as fearsome and utterly defiled by radiation as a Glowing One could still act as remotely near as any other human being hadn't been a notion that had ever occurred to Gabban before.

In fact, now that he had the presumable female in front of him, he had to admit that she had a helpless, languid air around her, her pudor evident when she put the enormous jacket on, buttoning it up to the neck; hugging herself with her wizened, skeletal arms as if she were cold.

Didn't radiation burn, anyway?

Then, the Courier approached the necrotic pair. Her pre-War device beeping softly until she found an adequate distance between them.

"Hi." – she said to the irradiated female, to Gabban's much dismay – "I'm Six and these are my friends. What's your name?"

The glowing necrotic gave her a helpless milky look until its white orbs landed upon a nearby bloodied corpse. Then, to Gabban's infinite disgust, she dug a finger on the fresh blood and started to write something on a wall.

Once she finished, it read a word. A name: Irina.

"Okay, Irina." – the Courier spoke once more – "You can tag along, but I warn you that we're looking for the Fiends' hideout down here to rescue one of us who got captured. If you're willing to assume the risk, you're welcome in our party."

Were they _seriously_ considering taking that dangerous thing with them?!

Again, Gabban directed his brother a questioning, almost _pleading_ look for him to assume authority once more and end this madness.

However, yet _again_, Vulpes did nothing, expectant and downrightly _enthralled_ as he was with the Courier's actions.

The Glowing One, Irina, gave them a slow nod.

And Gabban felt incredibly alone in this.

* * *

Out of practical sense more than respect for human life, he had allowed the Commie to live, which was more than her ilk deserved.

Besides, if he needed any other reparation for his implants or maintenance, he could always come back.

He had abused the usage of his enhancements to the point that he had to grab some medical equipment and medicines in his way out the clinic and lit a fire on a nearby demolished building.

Mid-way cooking, he had had to finish a group of stupid junkies who hadn't know when to quit. Good thing had been the First Aid Kit they had been guarding. Now he had all the water, syringes and bandages he needed.

The bullets embedded in his arms as a result of the confrontation had been a bitch to extract when his pulse won't quit shivering.

Benzodiazepine, insulin, sodium valproate… and then, quetiapine.

A cocktail meant not only to stabilize his accelerated metabolism – being this the main cause of the seizures - but also an antipsychotic to prevent the possibility of developing Schizophrenia.

He would know, those were the specifics they were instructed after the augmentation. Vault-Tec had tested it on enough organisms to know.

All illegal experiments that they, First-Class Marines, had endured for the common good, to win the War.

Fighting the convulsions as he injected the cooled solution in his forearm, he repeated his personal mantra as if it were the only thing that made sense in a world that didn't make sense anymore.

"I am an American Soldier…" – he began, the words lackluster in his broken, immensely tired voice – "I am a warrior… and a member of a team." – was he? - "I serve the people of the United States… and live the Army Values." – did he? Did he still? – "I will always place the mission first." – yes – "I will never accept defeat." – never – "I will never quit." – never – "I will never leave a fallen comrade." – never _again_ – "I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills." – damn straight he was – "I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself." – always – "I am an expert and I am a professional." – that, he was. He still was – "I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy, the enemies of the United States of America in close combat." – somewhere inside him, he still believed so; even if his actions, to this day, were _questionable_ at best – "I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life." – America for the Americans – "I am… an American Soldier."

Maybe he was a dead man walking. Maybe this wasn't the America he had fought for anymore.

But damn if he was going to allow a comrade live the same shit he had been forced through.

Damn if he still wasn't a team player.

It wasn't negotiable, it wasn't relative… but absolute.

_"Semper Fidelis."_ Always loyal. Always.

That was the only thing that kept him wading through this dead country, meeting phantoms like him, trading tales of the past, asking themselves when all did turn this wrong.

He still hadn't all the answers… and he wasn't sure he wanted them anymore.

But he was sure of what he still believed. The very reason he had never quit.

The very reason _she_ had never quit.

She needed him, he needed her. Comrades… betrayed by the very Army that made them family in the first place.

But you aren't a soldier if you cannot see past the corrupted system that has forsaken you, but the cause you were defending from the very start.

This was all he had.

So, regaining the control over his own body and conflicted emotions, he got up, the night almost peeling off the desert's sky as the very skin he shed after the bombs.

His equipment was as good as he could get with so very little resources at his disposition, his body recovered, his brain at full speed as he weighed his options.

If his maps were correct, the nearest entrances were on the Westside, for he couldn't risk deviating so much from the original Vegas' sewage system.

So, he used The Thorn's access.

Nobody knew him there, and the clientele surrounding the fighting pit were even worse-looking than him, so he had no problem infiltrating, asking the local merchants for news about the underground system in New Vegas.

He found an old Afro-American woman with the filthiest teeth and nittiest dreadlocks ever who asked him how much he would be willing to pay for information.

She asked for a very steep fee that he paid without question.

"A group of nine individuals - a girl, a ghoul, a doctor, an albino, and a local gang - broke Hell loose around the Black Market the night before." – the woman, who went by the name of Darkly Darla, informed him – "They forced everyone there to either run or fight before ransacking everything."

"Where is this Black Market you're talking about?" – he had asked, dead sure these were his runaways.

She had pointed it on his surface map so he could take a rough guess at where the nearest manhole to access it was.

He thanked her for the information and left the old crow counting greedily her caps.

He was on the right track now.

* * *

That evening, Darkly Darla was assaulted by a group of beggars who had overheard her conversation with the monstrous redhead ghoul at The Thorn. They gutted her and took the caps she had wanted to spend on tobacco and a sweet piece of ass at the Casa Madrid Apartments because the whores there were cleaner and cooler than the ones at The Gray despite being substantially more expensive.

Never say that the Karma didn't know her business, for she was a bitch.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LATIN:
> 
> (1) - "Light after the dark."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> SPANISH:
> 
> (A) - "Yes. They're eyeing the younglings way too much."  
(B) - "It's not right, Boss, it's not right."  
(C) - lady
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: apologies for the delay, but I had HALF this chapter written from Burke's POV on his experience dealing with Six and I felt... that it wasn't the right time to post that narrative just yet. So I copied the half chapter to another document and began again. Here's the result. I hope it was worth it despite that the action is very short.
> 
> The Burke's POV thing will be posted either in the next chapter or the next of the next, I'm undecided. We will have to deal with him sooner or later and his take on the political maneuvers on the Wasteland.
> 
> Cheers to everyone, the next chapter is on the way ;) Action, action...


	19. Where the truth lies

* * *

Stella didn't know what time it was anymore.

Or which day from what week of the month.

She was vaguely aware that they still were on February… weren't they? After all, she had been captured at the end of the month, so it may be safe to say that now they were in March… right?

What she now knew for certain was that there wasn't any certainty in her new world… apart from the inescapability of her situation.

She had learned a thing or two about being a woman amidst a titanic encampment filled with Legion scum in the form of men dressed as ridiculously as possible.

What she couldn't ridicule about them was their strength, a strength they cultivated and earned every day with the spartan-like trainings they underwent for hours.

While looking at their training grounds and platforms longingly from a gap on the tent canvas, wishing she could use their installations as well to kill boredom, she knew better than attempting such a suicide move.

She had learned it the very instant she had gotten on her two feet again after the incident with the shock anklet.

It had been the middle of the night and her monthly period had arrived at the worst possible moment, when her "Master" had been soundly asleep and the chamber pot too close to him for her to even dare approaching.

So, long story short: when the cramps had gotten unbearable, she had gotten out his tent with a bottle of clean water, knowing the communal latrines weren't too far away for her being caught scurrying away the anklet's radius.

It hadn't been the anklet the one who had betrayed her, but the scent of her own blood attracting one of the patrol mutts once she was done.

The dog had come accompanied by three muscled brutes who had worsened her already bad cramps when they had wiped the floor with her face until, luckily for her before something else happened, her "Master", puffy eyes and freshly shaven buzzcut, had appeared out of the blue and had given them his take on the matter in the form of formidable, pissed off as fuck punches while "lecturing" them about the consequences of "damaging his personal propriety".

After that, he had picked her from the ground and had carried her wordlessly back to his tent, where he had practically showered her in healing powder paste, put the chamber pot and a clean rag near her with a towel for her bedroll… and had gotten back to sleep.

Everything without uttering a single word.

She hadn't known how to react by then, a bit confused since she had thought Legion men to be closer to the Neanderthal type, knowing next to literally nothing about how women's reproductive systems worked beyond where to stick their dicks when they had the itch.

Next morning, her wish to strangle him had come renewed when, after bringing in some breakfast – maize gruel, per usual - he had _lectured_ her for his good twenty minutes about, citing his words, "how NOT to fuck up while under Caesar's rule".

Mainly being it a series of instructions of, either getting out the tent at her best or not getting out at all without his direct supervision.

She had ended so sick from listening to him that half her breakfast had been eaten by his two dogs, which had seemingly taken a like of her after feeding them that morning.

Stella didn't like dogs one bit.

She didn't like how they smell, the inhuman amount of fur they left wherever they passed, and the unbelievable amount of drool one can get coated in when they felt like giving you their love.

And these mongrels didn't know when to quit.

Like now, lying by her side, rolling up with folded paws and whimpering for the umpteenth time for a belly rub she, out of boredom, had ended giving just for them to shut up.

They seemed to leave her alone once their owner got inside the tent stinking of sweat after one of his marathonian bets with fellow _Decanii_ (she had learned those were from the rank he pertained to, a captain of sorts) to see how many pushups they could get in sixty seconds.

Here, the main entertainment among legionaries when they weren't training, eating, sleeping, patrolling or accosting female slaves, were demonstrations of physical power in the form of competitions, and the arena.

Where they made bets against "Profligates". The ones they captured alive.

Like her.

Despite having been the first one mentioning the arena back at Ranger Station Charlie, her "Master" didn't seem in a hurry to set a match with her. In fact, Stella got the distinct impression that the young man, despite not being one bit gentle or courteous, was trying very hard to make her stay at Fortification Hill as best as possible.

Besides making sure that she was properly fed and clean, he would sometimes make small conversation with her even if conversing wasn't his strong suit and half of the time both ended making biting comments and rude gestures to the other.

Nonetheless, if it wasn't because of those small verbal sparrings, Stella felt she would have gone insane even before the first week had passed. For not even the other slaves would deign to exchange more than practical commands with her in a highly botched up version of the English tongue mixed with a variety of words she swore they might have pertained to, at least, five different languages besides their common Latin-thingy nobody but a handful of them were truly fluent in.

That had told her just how vastly different was this alien world with an alien culture from hers, trapped within an ideology that represented both the best and the worst of military prowess.

An ideology that rejected her as a soldier. A defender. A fighter.

Bitching with him – mostly due to their wide cultural differences – was the only thing that was constant in her life right now besides basic bodily functions.

So, the moment he was accosted by the canines upon entering the tent, earning eager lapping whereas he picked the mutts on his two muscled arms, accommodating the animals on his hips and shoulders as if they were but babies to him, she didn't waste the opportunity to mess with him.

"Socializing with your ilk, _Decanus_?"

She preferred to refer to him by his rank as he, sporadically, would do the same to her.

As if her Ranger status still meant something in a world where she was at the very bottom of the hierarchical and social chain.

He seemed to be in good spirits today, as his reply wasn't as mordacious as she had anticipated.

"Laugh if you will, Ranger, but there's much joy to give and take with creatures whose loyalty is as unwavering as their ferociousness the instant a member of the pack is threatened." - he replied, allowing the big furballs to give him a thorough face wash – "If they recognize you as one of them, you can be damn sure that such a bond is not as easily broken as human relationships go by."

That picked her attention.

"Talking from personal experience?" - she probed.

However, he snorted inelegantly as he sat cross-legged with the animals on his lap, kicking his boots off.

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Stella." - he replied nonchalantly – "It doesn't suit you."

"Oh, wow, didn't know you were capable of even pronounce such a fancy word, much less to apply its meaning correctly in context." – she bit back – "Maybe there's still a chance to salvation inside that thick skull of yours yet."

"Yeah, 'salvation' as in Profligate ways counts." – he retorted sardonically – "The day I'll want to switch sides by bending my knee before Kimball instead of Lord Caesar, you will be the first one to know, Ranger."

That was still a sore point in their conversations, and every single time either he or she would rise to the bait.

"At least my President is a war hero that supports the rights of every single Republican regardless of gender, race, age or social status." – she spat – "A system a _woman_ successfully implemented more than ninety years ago."

"A system a woman _helped_ to implement." – he corrected – "It's so funny how your people tend to idolize Tandi so much and kind of forget the role her father, Aradesh, played in your Nation's shaping."

Stella's mouth went so agape that she almost forgot how to form a reply correctly.

"You know about our History?" – she asked, incredulous and amazed.

He shrugged.

"Gotta pretty strong connections with our Head of Intelligence." – he clarified – "Dunno how many truly care about who the NCR are. I honestly didn't give a crap, but information is crucial to our high echelons, thus to the _Decanii_." – he shrugged again – "The more you know your enemy, the better the advantage over said enemy. Your country should apply the same principle if they wanna know what they're facing in the first place."

Stella's eyes squinted, a dangerous suspicion already forming in the back of her mind.

"So, this is it?" – she asked, suddenly furious and defensive – "You capture a Ranger to try wring her out of information for your bosses?" – then, she flipped him her middle finger – "Fuck you. Ain't telling you shit."

But he sprawled all over his bedroll and allowed the mutts to settle with him, scratching one behind its ears.

"First of all." – he said, an index finger raising up lazily – "Fuck YOU." – fingers middle and index switched briefly as he kept talking – "Second: don't give me ideas." – he added, fingers adding to his count – "And third: I'm NOT a fucking Frumentarius. Never was, will never be. That's the Fox's sphere."

Stella's ears perked up, unfamiliar with the title the man had used on their Master Spy, if they were talking about the same person, that is. Never know when this information could be useful… as long as she managed to ideate a solid and viable strategy to escape from this hellhole.

"Fox?" – she asked – "Wasn't your spymaster nicknamed 'Snaketongue'?" – she snorted humorlessly – "He's been elected for five consecutive years as _'Most Popular Asshole' _on the NCR Mojave propaganda campaign, you know."

She was surprised when he _tsked_ at her casual flippantness.

"Outdated, as expected." – he said, shaking his head condescendingly – "See what I mean? You're so full of paperwork and shitty stuff, if the boresome sample we found on your archives and reports at the Ranger Station is of any measure to go by, that already _old_ news gets _years_ late to your superiors."

"What do you mean?" – she found herself asking, but the bastard had already tuned out and was playing with the smelly mongrels, rolling around with them while _rawring_ and showing teeth.

She envied him, how easy his life seemed in comparison, throwing carelessly information around for her to digest.

For her to process how much of a failure her country's politics, in her direst time, were proving to be.

* * *

Rose of Sharon Cassidy, "Cass" for her friends, was glad she had gotten ahold of a whiskey bottle from the Mormons' supply agreement with the Garrets that Six had worked up months ago before braving the complex, obscure world of Vegas' underground.

At least, when she was drunk, her nose and cheeks got so puffy and red that her sense of smell got blessedly dwindled.

Because, in this place, the combined stenches of piss, shit, vomit and general putrefaction had surpassed any previous experiences with humankind's worst of the worst.

"Blergh… if we weren't in a hurry, I would totally have taken some of the breathing masks Six told me she found on a canyon wreckage West of Primm from the 38." – Veronica complained, her voice slightly nasal as she was pinching her nose with her left hand – "This is, by comparison, worse than being in the immediate radius of a brahmin with diarrhea. And, believe me, I unfortunately know what I'm talking about."

As she swung yet another mouthful of harsh liquor, Cass couldn't agree more: you could, literally, _taste_ it.

And she would join Lil' Riding Punch in the bitching to feel better… if it wasn't because she feared that her taste buds were still too sober to ignore the overpowering _bouquet._

Red Beret, as usual, was silent as a rock. The lantern he had borrowed from the Followers tightly strapped with duct tape over the scope of his rifle, making way for the rest to see where the Hell they were heading.

Because they hadn't the slightest clue about directions down here, without the sun to even guide them through the day.

**"Look, Leo."** – somehow, after a while in silence, Lily's voice got every single one of them off-guard as even Beret jumped slightly upon hearing her speak – **"It seems like somebody has been doing some plague cleansing down here."**

An astute observation, given the already half-eaten state of the corpses of mutated rodents and roaches littering a particular corridor.

To a casual observer, it would have looked like the two groups of vermin had gotten in a territorial skirmish with several casualties on the way.

But Boone had been trained to detect not only how old wounds caused by bullets looked like on decaying corpses, but also get a general idea of the caliber used.

".44 and .357 six-shooters, a rifle and a 10mm." – he declared after finding several shells on the lower part of said corridor as it descended into a ramp to a lower level, thus making the shells roll to the bottom – "That would back up what you saw before losing them: Raul, the girlie and the tribal. The .357 must be from the other guys you said they were with." – he confirmed, nodding to Veronica, who waited impatiently his verdict - "No signs of plasma, though." – sighing, he got up – "Might be the best clue we will come across here. Let's see where it leads."

Nobody objected a damn thing.

With that, Rex stepped in, picking up the scent of powder and battle, trotting ahead for the rest of the group to follow, a clear destination set that, by how things looked, was taking them to the Northern part of Vegas' old sewage system.

Cass secretly made a toast for that as she ran after the cybernetic mutt, caravan shotgun already prepared for action.

* * *

The situation on New Vegas' underworld, she had grown to know in a matter of hours, was a long shot from being "ideal".

In fact, she still didn't get how House could have been so utterly oblivious to it… or how little did he care of the world outside the Strip's walls.

It had shown every time, after experiencing the Post-Apocalyptical splendor of New Vegas, when the Courier's feet had walked the streets of the Freeside. As if the rest of the city only mattered to House when it served as a tasting sample of what was about to come behind the checking point at the Strip North Gate… or to pay those home rents nobody knew whom they were truly paying to, but added on the submerged economy of New Vegas.

Robert Edwin House was supposed to have _absolute_ control over everything that happened within his territory – despite how much Freeside and Westside inhabitants liked to boast about an independence that, in practicality, was only fictional.

Then, why would he allow for this to continue? To even exist in the first place?

She had seen the distant drones that patrolled from the furthest point of the Westside to McCarran, Veronica and Arcade the only ones knowing the whole extent of their rotative presence, Boone so accustomed to them that he mostly didn't care… and _Zorro_ searching for blind spots where those unwanted flying spies couldn't reach.

House had the technology and the resources to control the sewers as well.

Did he think that blowing off most of the communication tunnels sufficed? Could he be so impossibly overconfident…?

Or was his complete disregard, despite his claims, for human life what made him so passive about it?

Anyway, her circular reasoning turned into smoke that vanished as quickly as it had come the moment her right forearm brushed lightly against _Zorro's_ knuckles.

The jolt of electricity was instantaneous and she had to make an extra effort to make her not-so-casual distancing look as natural as possible.

For the last hour, she had found herself several times walking way too close to him. And no matter how many times she would retreat, somehow her body always would find the means to end orbiting around him again, seeking unconscious closeness.

She knew she should contain herself. They were running from Charon and also on a mission, surrounded by his men, and with half the group missing (because they weren't the D Word, no, no, no, no, no, No D Words, lalalalala).

Yet she found herself daydreaming shit. Cheesy shit, to be precise.

The realization of how badly she had been crushing without even being aware of it couldn't have arrived in a worse moment.

How did she allow for this to happen? The holding hands thing, the growing mutual invasion of personal space (an invasion she had started in the first place, an invasion she did to nearly everyone she cared for, damn her affection-starving issues), the deal with sitting near him every time they camped, the back-to-back sleeping while on their respective bedrolls… silly details that hadn't hold any importance at the moment now were magnified inside her head, seeking clues to when did that trust had evolved into this… hormonal-thingy mess?

She wasn't eleven anymore! This wasn't cute! This was downrightly pathetic and desperate! She should have grown out these things long ago!

Then, she caught herself almost stepping into his boots… yet _again_.

The facepalm she delivered to herself echoed all through the cylindrical passage they were in, startling almost every single legionary in tow.

"Hey, Boss, hey…" – Raul's raspy voice came from behind, his skinned hands coming to rest upon her shoulders – "You okay?" – when she gave him a helpless look, the ghoul took her hitting hand, patting it softly like one would do to an impatient, violent toddler – "Don't do that again, okay?"

She repressed the impulse to pout. Raul was right and she wasn't a child, she just would have to sort out how to work ou…

"What was that about?"

It took only a single whisper, and then, her hormones screamed again. It was the voice, wasn't it?

Another gap of time had passed, they were walking again, everything was quiet, and she had magnetized herself towards _Zorro_ for the umpteenth time. Thus, inviting unwelcome questioning.

She was a lost cause.

"Sullivan?"

She suppressed the building growl of frustration she wanted to unleash. So many self-imposed restrictions were starting to wear on her. And she was hungry.

It must be well-past breakfast time. She detested going to a confrontation with an empty stomach.

A confrontation with dangerous retarded junkies.

"Gotta question." – she replied to him instead of answering his question, her right index finger oscillating in midair – "How in the Holy Cow did you manage to locate me when Charon was after me and you knew exactly what building to blow off?"

_Zorro_ cocked his head to a side in a very avian-like manner, his blue eyes inquisitive.

"Charon?" – he asked – "You mean our ghoul persecutor?"

"Yup."

"That's his name?" – he pressed, _suspiciously_ intrigued – "As in the Styx's ferryman myths?"

She held up her index finger again.

"Nununununu, Fox-Man." – she chided – "No question-deviating."

He snorted incredulously.

"I could say the same to you…" – he murmured, more to himself than to her – "But fine: it was thanks to Yes Man."

She almost tripped on her own feet.

"What?!" – she nearly yipped, indignant, struggling very hard to keep her voice low enough so Gabban and the rest wouldn't overhear what wasn't their damn business. Frumentarii = nosy guys – "You talking now with Yes Man?!"

"Why, yes, Sullivan." – he replied arrogantly, his voice sounding as indignant as hers – "Is there a problem?"

"How did you two contact?" – she pressed.

"Is this an interrogatory?"

"Do you see any pliers or any other torture instrumental?"

"That's the way you interrogate people?"

"Stop deflecting questions!"

"So, it _is_ an interrogatory."

"No."

"Yes."

"I said no!"

"Bit moody, aren't we?"

"Because you're pissing me off intentionally!"

"And you are raising to the bait, I'd say."

"Fine! Be that way!"

"Oh, I wouldn't _dare_ to disappoint, Sullivan."

"Go kiss a Deathclaw!"

"After you."

"URGH!"

It was _obscenely easy_ to walk off _Zorro_ once she was effectively pissed with him. She was too incensed to ponder onto a very deliberate auto sabotaging tactic as a result of her altered state. For she wasn't admitting shit, even to herself.

There are just some things you weren't prepared to admit, and much less when you were this irrationally angry with an empty stomach and a stupid crush getting in the middle of your regular cognitive processes. Some things in the Wasteland were a No-No.

Nonetheless, her little display had attracted attentions, for Gabban and Miguel had turned around their heads to exchange questioning glances with their leader, who had clamped down to his usual hermetic self, giving away nothing.

Raul and their newest addition, Irina, having a more dilated experience on life in general, limited themselves to exchange knowing glances, shaking their heads in unison.

This was suspiciously starting to resemble a traveling circus, Arcade and the oldest of the two Afro-American legionaries, _Licaón_, being the only ones who still got their feet on the ground and reacted in time by warning the others when the ambush happened.

The exact point had been the terrain under the Sharecropper Farms, where a widening of the path had led into a set of control rooms that, ultimately, were meant to guide the pre-War Maintenance staff into a what looked to be an unusable sludge digestion chamber.

The Fiends had been hiding inside the higher pipelines.

They fell upon them armed with chainsaws, Shishkebabs, knives and flamethrowers, dirtier than their average disgustingness, mohawks up with grime and grease, faces painted in black with oil sporting bloodshot, deranged eyes. Mad clucking noises and hysteric laughter began to fill every inch of the space as they closed in the group, dancing around them, switching weapons between hands cockily, clanking spiked knuckles on the pipes, directing disgusting obscene gestures to their prey, playing unabashedly with them. One of the junkies was daring enough to get too close to the Master Frumentarius who, already unsettled from his prior quarrel with the Courier, cut the other down with a violent slash he accomplished with Cass' combat knife, effectively opening up the bastard's throat and getting himself sprayed in the Fiend's in blood.

The rest of the Fiends didn't waste any time in attacking the group in disorganized retaliation… and the legionaries responded in kind with a rain of bullets that was quickly backed up by Raul's twin revolvers, Arcade's Plasma Defender and Six's 10mm.

Tactical formation and strategy went to Hell the very instant the first wave fell down and they started pouring in non-stop.

Gabban and his men quickly ran out of ammo, so they resorted to close-quarters combat armed with the long knives dead junkies had dropped. At the first taste of real blood, the men frenzied.

Historically, and following the thirty-five years since Caesar began his expansion campaign, Utah tribes were renowned for their ferocity, for their land was as unmerciful and hard as the very Mojave their later had campaigned on. Not for nothing, the Legion's current Capital was Flagstaff in Arizona, as life in the Utah had been beyond physical endurance to even some legionaries. And they were trained to survive in _any_ manner of hostile environment.

Lanius' tribe might have hailed from Arizona… but their roots could be traced back North, to the angry sands of the bordering lands of Utah.

And so, _La Jauría_, their more peaceful neighbors, _Los Nuevos Nahuas_, and the other nine tribes the Burned Man had conquered and assimilated for Caesar, were now the youngest and toughest batch of "adult" soldiers under the Bull's banner.

If Blackfoot founders – descendants from a pre-War ex-military group, now turned into Legion veterans - had been merciless; Utah legionaries, descendants from the survivors of many botched-up Vault-Tec social experiments, were _bloodthirsty_.

_La Jauría's_ initiation rituals for women had been harsh, but for men had been thrice the worse. Pretty much like the Great Khans did these days.

Gabban had to remind this to himself every time he engaged Profligates in combat, as he had always found his own belligerence… kind of _lacking_ when he compared himself to either Alexus or Vulpes.

Since the assimilation, Gabban's siblings had become _rabid_, pushy, competitive. And so, the remnants of their tribe had followed in their example. Many Legion instructors having found them _dangerous_ for the rest of the boys.

Gabban had been an unwilling accomplice, along with the other boys of their tribe, of three infanticides during their basic training instruction before turning out fifteen when Alexus' true nature had been discovered by another child: if they knew, the Legion knew.

Whereas it had felt natural to defend a sibling from a life sentence, it had felt incredibly wrong to murder another boy in cold blood and play stupid in front of the instructors once the corpse was found… _if_ it was ever found, that is, for Vulpes had ideated quite the ways to get rid of them once the first one had proven his efforts insufficient.

Since the Burned Man had forced their hands during the _Dimidio_, Gabban had to put an extra effort to recognize Vulpes and Alexus as the siblings he once had loved, and not the angry pack leaders, each in their own way, they had turned into with the years.

Like now.

If the men didn't need any further motivation than blood to turn berserk, Vulpes' example wasn't helping at all: having taken one of the Shishkebabs from the fallen Fiends, he was having the time of his life carving his merry way from charred flesh to charred flesh, hunting down even the ones who turned heel from the battlefield.

Gabban had even heard him hissing that phrase he often employed when he wanted to scare off new recruits: _"Pile body upon body."_

Not that the Courier wasn't keeping up with the general madness: once her 10mm ammo reserves had run out, she had started picking more and more loaded guns from their backpacks non-stop – going from a standard 9mm caliber to a monstrous .50 MG from an anti-material rifle that, despite being too big for her, she managed to shoot with an accuracy that was downrightly _frightening_ – until she had picked up the mood to join in the hunt-down the scattering junkies.

The two of them were angrier than neither their family and companions had ever seen them, and it showed on their sloppy leadership when more Fiends kept coming and neither of them, too focused on their targets, gave the order to retire.

And Gabban's desperate command fell on deaf ears.

Irina, who had been attempting to scare the junkies off to prevent getting surrounded, had but vanished without leaving a trace, and so had happened with the Mexican ghoul as well once the human part of their group, Courier, legionaries and Follower alike, got corralled against a slimy wall; the junkie who attempted to grab the girl for, no doubt, _devious_ purposes, got headbutted by a snarling Vulpes until the nozzle of a huge service rifle was pointed below his chin.

"Well, well, well, what in the holy fuck we've gotta here?" – a gruff, gritty voice broke through the hysteric victory clamor of the drug-addicts – "Fresh meat, I'd say. Whaddya think, boys?"

The answer was a deafening chorus of maniacal hollering.

The owner of such a voice (and the service rifle pointing at the Master Frumentarius too) was a forty(ish)-year-old piece of crap that Six had already the displeasure to get acquainted with.

"Duke…" – the girl spat, eyeing the Fiend leader as if he were the most disgusting and diseased radroach she had ever seen.

That seemed to get the Fiend's attention, for he turned his helmeted head and squinted his bloodshot eyes until he recognized her.

"What the fuck…?!" – the man exclaimed and, to the girl's immense disgust, he was smiling – "I'll be damned! If ain't Lolita Khan and her boot-licking cunt-sucking band of losers!" – after eyeing the rest of the legionaries, he added perversely – "So full of yourself now, surrounded by tough dicks instead of tough dykes." – he laughed at his own bad pun – "Bit far from your beloved Red Rock Canyon, huh?"

"Never far enough from ears sharp enough to reach Papa Khan in no time, telling him to take a big fat dump on the next ship delivery to Vault 3." – she defied – "So straight up those knickers, for they've gotten so twisted that your balls are irrigation-lacking. Thus, your brains."

"And she even loses the accent now, cute." – the Fiend leader mocked – "Bet having your little mouth so full with cock all the time has improved your speech. Mind if I add on your education or do I have to sign for an appointment?"

"Keep dreaming, Duke. Go back to your basement and jerk that frustration off until you rip it off the roots." – she spat.

"Did you know that, sometimes, dreams become true, Lola?" – the man replied, his deviated sight getting more and more deranged as he neared his motorcycle helmet to his prey – "You come to my territory, kill my men and lie to my very fucking face expecting a free pass without getting that pretty ass slapped? I'd say you've been a bad, bad girl and I happen to have the remedy for that. Call it a payout for the men I lost today."

"Touch me and you aren't seeing a single Jet inhaler for the rest of your putrid existence."

Usually, threatening a drug addict with cutting their source would be enough for the evil being pulled from the root… so she hadn't been expecting the chorus of laughter that filled the sewage chamber.

"We don't need your stupid supply line anymore, Lola." – Duke replied, laughing with his men – "Screw the Khans. We've gotta nice place down here where we got supplied by those slackers at the Black Market. Give it time… and soon all the fucking Westside will be ours."

"Yeah, and then New Vegas too." – the girl mocked in return – "Do you really think that such a move wouldn't be stopped either by the NCR, House or even the Legion once they see your ugly faces all over the city they covet so much?" – watching the raider leader froze in place, she got cockier and added – "There are bigger, meaner players on this board than the Khans or your pathetic excuse of a tribe."

"NCR can't cope with us and Bot Man doesn't give a crap as long as he's getting caps flowing in, which we can control by striking a deal with him regarding the traffic getting in and out New Vegas." – Duke assured, his plan evidently sounding brilliant as fuck inside that addled mind of his – "As for the Legion…" – he smiled – "They've already invited us to join them. We're the Legion." – he declared triumphally.

However, by Six's right, _Zorro_ started cackling. First softly, then uncontrollably.

"Y-you?" – he asked incredulously, as if the notion were the funniest thing he had ever heard – "With the Legion? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

As if infected by his merriment, _Fénec_, _Licaón_ and _Pequeño Chacal_ laughed madly as well, finding the Fiend's statement as funny as their leader had. The only ones not finding it amusing in the slightest being Gabban and Miguel, too horrified on their leader's suicide move to even react whereas Arcade, being the closest to Six, took her little hand in his, ready to put himself between her and that bunch of psychos if they but dared to touch her.

Livid from the ridicule he was being subjected to, Duke shoved his rifle's butt into Vulpes' stomach, making the young man double over himself, releasing a chain reaction where Six kicked said rifle off the Fiend's hands and attempted to put herself between Vulpes and Duke to ultimately end being pulled by Arcade, who interposed his body between her and the blows that immediately came over from everywhere.

Gabban and the rest made a barrier between more blows aiming for the Courier and the Master Frumentarius when the latter drove a fist through the face protection of Duke's helmet, crushing the plastic and the Fiend leader's nose in the process.

However, the fight was quickly extinguished when Duke's iron knuckles connected as well to Vulpes' temple, rendering the growling young man unconscious.

* * *

What in the goddamn had she'd been thinking?

Standing at the training grounds with almost half the encampment looking at her hadn't been what she had devised when, out of pure and unadultered boredom, she had given in the teasing of her "Master" regarding her fighting technique, challenging him to a wrestling duel.

The bastard had been patiently waiting for this moment to come as he had given her the most disturbing, excited grin she had ever seen in another human being as an answer to her challenge.

Now, hands and feet tightly bandaged and both of them dressed in training tunics, Stella was doubting herself for the umpteenth time since her big mouth got her in this trouble.

Was it worth it? To trade her comfortable, incredibly boring existence under the Legion's boot for training and fighting surrounded by savages that could turn her already shitty life into a nightmare if she but dared to overstep their boundaries?

And what were exactly "Legion boundaries" in training grounds for their standards? How much could she push her luck breaking bones before all turned out into plain aggression?

How much was she ready to give out regarding her training for them to take notes?

"Legionaries!" – the _Decanus'_ voice rose above the general ruckus fueled by curiosity – "One of the first rules that you're taught since you start training is that a Legion warrior shall not fear the enemy!"

This declaration was met with a unanimous short battle cry.

"That we are but extensions to the power of Mars!"

Another confirmation translated into hollering. If Stella wouldn't have been so incredibly intimidated by the sheer amount of them congregated around her, she would have laughed at their macho-men antics.

"That a weak link is intolerable in a battlefield where your poor judgment can cost you and your Brothers' lives!"

She recalled an old pre-War holodisk she used to watch when she had been fifteen at the local cinema, now banned from the RODAM or Republic's Official Database of Audiovisual Media.

"Your duty is a warrior's duty!"

In the movie, a king from the Ancient Times guided his people to battle against a self-proclaimed god from the East. A monstrous man surrounded by gold and splendor whose slave army was bound to conquer a city of progress, mother of great minds and philosophers: Athens.

The king and his men were an independent country allied with Greece: Sparta.

"Your compromise is a warrior's compromise!"

Between Athenians, Thebans and Thespians, their numbers were great, but what they brought in quantity, they lacked in quality.

Sparta, on the other hand, brought only 300 Spartans.

At being questioned about his compromise, the king asked his men what was their profession.

"Your profession is a warrior's profession!"

The men at this encampment, dressed in red rags and worked to the last fiber, were the closest embodiment, as they cheered the _Decanus_, that Stella had ever seen to those once fictional, now frighteningly real Spartans waiting for a chance to show the larger, much better prepared NCR army, that the First Battle for the Hoover Dam, instead of defeating them as it had happened to the ancient warriors at the Thermopylae, had been but a first act to a much larger-scaled battle, that could very well culminate in Salamis, with the Republicans turning tail the same Persians were forced to do.

"A profession you are expected to perform to the best of your capabilities!"

If these last three years since she got her Ranger badge had been Hell on earth putting up with the general hopelessness of the Mojave Campaign… now Stella feared that Chief Hanlon's words at Camp Golf could be true: that holding on to the Dam and New Vegas would eventually kill the Republic.

"You are expected not only to be a warrior, but a GOOD warrior!" – she heard the _Decanus'_ declarations from a distant reality, vaguely aware that his passion had congregated even children around them. Children training to be soldiers. Children training to become killers – "And do you know what a GOOD warrior does?"

The tension, at this point, was almost palpable.

"A GOOD warrior _learns_ from his enemy!" – and now, suddenly all the eyes were upon her – "This woman is a Republican warrior. A Ranger."

The jeers and boos were almost instantaneous but, somehow, the _Decanus'_ words silenced them.

"A Ranger that could kill _any_ of you with some well-placed moves!" - he continued – "Many of you have only seen battle against troopers, and even more of you have never battled against the Republic at all! The Rangers, though, are a very different story from the bland Profligates you have engaged in battle so far!"

His grand discourse, though, was cut by a presumptuous brute. The likes that train their bodies like a pro but have the brains of a retarded ten-year-old. Those abounded in the Republic's Army as well. None of them passed the Rangers' most basic standards.

"But that's a woman!" – said brute bellowed – "Women are but weaker, incapable beings meant for bearing children and ensure the survival of our species!"

She wasn't sure, but Stella could swear she saw her "Master's" blue eyes darkening.

"Wanna test that, legionary?" – he asked, and there was a challenge in his voice – "Would you be willing to bet your life upon that statement against a Ranger?"

The daring peas-for-brains scoffed disdainfully.

"I wouldn't waste my time fighting against an inferior being like her."

"Is that so?" – the _Decanus_ asked, a venomous, forked smile dawning upon his lips – "Or is it that, deep inside, you are afraid of engaging in battle a woman who could very easily break your neck?"

The sod's face got several tones scarlet as he bellowed again.

"I don't fear the enemy!"

Stella then realized the trap in which her "Master" had corralled the poor idiot.

"Prove it."

A space was made for the two combatants to begin.

"Stella." – she heard her "Master" saying from behind - "Kill him… if you like. You have my blessing."

And she, with great pleasure, did so.

* * *

Guilt was something Raul Alfonso Tejada was well-acquainted with.

Something he had learned to live with like a second skin underneath the already rotten one after radiation's kiss.

Something that had been weighing on his conscience since he could barely remember.

Mexico City, much earlier than when the bombs fell, had been a lair of corruption and violence despite the washed-up face it had put in front of the _gringos_ and overseas tourists, treating them with Mexicans' exotic, magnificent gastronomy, their colorful traditional garments, their mariachi bands, their tequila, and their beautiful, soft-spoken women. Raul's family ranch had been reasonably far from the immense Capital… but, before the War, one could never have been far enough from its siren's chants.

The Tejadas had been poor. Half their country had been in the same situation, and even more since the 50's, when the United States had decided to start putting pressure on Mexico to destabilize its economy and, ultimately, militarily invade them; so Raul's parents had never thought much about it.

But he had. He had wanted to give his family a better life.

He had gotten into one of those criminal thieving gangs at the tender age of thirteen.

Money had nearly blinded him.

It had been so easy… to prey on small stores, bursting open their cash registers by night; to pickpocket overweight tourists who couldn't chase after you even if they tried their damn hardest; to bully less powerful gangs into handing up their money from time to time…

They had been one of the meanest, toughest bands South Mexico City, their territory.

And they had risen to power too quickly.

What they had known about drugs and human trafficking before petty thefts evolved into much larger operations? They had been children, stupid kids who had been seduced by adult's promises of a life in luxury, of easy money in exchange for small, apparently innocuous collaborations at guarding entrances while, inside unnamed warehouses and shady brothels, steepy illegal transactions took place.

The only rule that mattered was to keep your trap shut.

Cartels in Mexico City had abounded, and Raul had been quick on the take to bid his farewells before he got himself inside a world he knew that, once it seized you, you could never walk off it.

He had returned to his family ranch with a low head and several police detentions on his back, but nothing too serious.

Unlike those friends he left behind. And the tiniest part of him that had died with it.

_El Periódico de las Aburridas_ had kept, despite its usually sensationalist content, consistently coming to Hidalgo Ranch, Raul's family business, throughout the years.

And so, amidst superfluous content, Raul had caught glimpses, from time to time, of familiar names stealing the front page of the newspaper in the format of arrested or shot down relevant mob criminals who, once, had happened to sit in his same class at Primary School.

And then, the annexation happened.

After Jingwei's forces had landed in Alaska with a large parachute assault in 2066, the United States didn't take their defeat too well.

Canadians had resisted longer than they should have, but Mexico, already impoverished down to a point of no return, had given into North America's demands and then, all their History and proud _Tenochtitlán_ roots had, finally, yielded to Uncle Sam's monster and had become the fifty-first State.

Nonetheless, all of this had been but mere news to read in the newspaper as the only real change Raul had noticed in his new life as an American citizen had been the total disappearance of their currency, the Mexican peso, to deal exclusively with North American dollars.

Becoming one with Uncle Sam had greatly helped Mexico to economically grow again.

Pity it had only lasted less than a decade.

He hadn't understood the bombs the same his family, isolated in a big, prosperous ranch, hadn't understood how charity and goodwill would have brewed such a monster once their food reserves had begun to dwindle too dangerously close to starvation.

They should have seen it coming, for there's not a more powerful drive for people than hunger.

The night the arson had stolen his family in almost its entirety away, he had felt how yet another part of him had died leaving his parents, his grandmother and his brothers and sisters behind as his hand had gripped Rafaela's in an iron grip while they had run away from the violent refugees their family had received in their house with open arms and Christian solidarity.

Radiation had started kicking in just a few months after they had arrived at the ruins of old Mexico City. He hadn't known what that had meant at the time, but the increasing tiredness, the trembling, the hair-falling thing, the blood coughing… he hadn't wanted to die, he still had to take care of Rafaela, the only family he had had in all the world.

He hadn't been strong enough. Radiation had bested him.

And then, Rafaela had been too young, too naïve, and too good to survive on her own in a world where the only law that mattered was the law of the strongest.

She hadn't stood a chance.

But so the bastards who had raped, tortured, and mutilated her hadn't also stood a chance against the devil the bombs had created.

He didn't have many bullets, but he had had enough.

With yet another piece of himself irremediably lost and broken, he had attempted to begin again, first pressing North, then East. To Arizona.

Two-Sun had been the bastardized version of its pre-War counterpart, Tucson, but he had been happy there.

As happy as an old, broken, over a century-year-old ghoul with a false name on his clothes and a profession he didn't enjoy could have been anyway.

Claudia had worked in the local brothel. He had wanted to protect her, to keep an eye on her most violent clients. He had ever fantasized to help her out her harsh way of living, to procure for her the same an old brother would have done.

She had reminded him so much of his Rafaela…

And then, more raiding scum had arrived at Two-Sun. And he had been the idiot enough to think that selling them ammunition would appease them enough to leave alone the place he had grown fond to call "home".

Since when selling means to violence buys peace?

At his already advanced age, he should have known better.

They had found entertainment in raiding the brothel, killing the working girls there, kidnapping Claudia for their own sick amusement.

They had been prostitutes, considered by both pre-War and Post-Apocalyptical societies as the lowest form of human life. Nobody would have missed them more than they would miss a glass of whiskey in which to drown their pathetic existences, right?

Wrong.

Raul had tracked them. Claudia had been dead by the time he had caught up with Dirty Dave and his brothers.

He had made sure they had paid dearly for it.

But then, once he had given Claudia proper sepulture, the only thing he had been able to provide for her in the end, Raul had felt more of a ghost than the man he once had been.

His body already so deteriorated that it had suited the broken state in which he had abandoned Two-Sun to find the Grim Reaper.

But then, again, the Reaper didn't seem too interested in him, for he had survived the desert, and then Tabitha…

And then…

The glowing hand that had pulled insistently at his when the raiders had become a swarming cloud of angry wasps had not abandoned him since they had firstly hidden inside one of those broken pipelines, then pressed through said pipeline down to lower levels.

His companion, unable as she was to elaborate on why or where were they going, was proving to be quite a challenge to follow not only because she was half a head taller than him, but she was quicker than she looked.

And each time he had dared to question her, the only gesture she had given him in response had been one of urgency, as if every second was counting dearly for her.

His inner tour revisiting bittersweet memories had kept him occupied whilst following her, too focused on the growing denial he was developing in the face of losing something that now was precious to him.

_Jefecita,_ the _chavo,_ and the others.

Whereas Raul was well aware that he was an old sack of bones, those two sweet, violent, and a tad too emotional for their own good, kids along with Brotherhood's _niña bonita_ were the ones he cherished the most from their strange group.

They were simply too naïve, quarreling like the lovebirds they were, too focused on how confused they felt around one another to think straight in a situation they shouldn't have found themselves in the first place.

What were they doing, commanding people like war veterans and pulling triggers instead of fooling around like they should be? Did the world had learned nothing from the bombs, allowing children to play with guns instead of toys once more?

They needed someone to protect them, even from themselves.

Someone that knew more about life, someone who could guide them. Someone like him.

Raul wasn't abandoning them. He wasn't failing again.

And he would have turned heel, back where he was needed the most… if he didn't intuit that his mute companion had a plan.

They weren't running away as he had initially feared when Irina had taken his hand, signaling him to remain quiet as the humans were taken away by the Fiends.

She was heading for something.

And that very _something_ was revealed to him in the worst possible manner.

Raul saw all of his life parading in front of him the moment a wide space shrouded in shadow came into view.

An almost _gargantuan_ space with several levels connected with precarious, rusty pre-War auxiliary ladders.

But what scared him out of his mind wasn't the deep pit of blackness that was opening its maws for him to sink… but the unholy amount of greenish glow that swarmed below their feet at the bottom.

Raul knew he had frozen on the edge, his silhouette visible for all the moving life below him.

Because the several sources of that swarming glow were alive.

_Very_ much alive.

Despite counting several dozens, he still didn't know how they moved so impossibly organized and quick, climbing slimy walls like overgrown salamanders while others simply dropped from several points above, tucked as they had been in the most unsuspected spaces, taking advantage of every single hole and every single corner. Their raspy, almost inhumane growling made Raul aware that his sweat glands were still very much operative since he was acutely aware of how drenched and cold his back and hands felt.

Irina let go of his hand.

A towering, elongated Glowing One male barely clothed in rags stepped in as soon as he got sight of her.

The two were reunited in the most tender, passionate embrace Raul had ever watched between two necrotic beings, used as they were to physical reject even amidst their own kind.

The elongated male cupped Irina's emaciated face as if it was the most precious thing in the world for him and then, the two of them… sort of kissed.

Because they hadn't any remaining lips to do so.

However, to Raul, it was the most magical, beautiful thing he had ever looked at, no matter the viscous glowing threads that hung between their mouths briefly after they pulled apart to gaze at each other.

And then, the male's white orbs landed over Raul, questioning, a low warning growl coming from the depths of his throat as he cradled his beloved between his skeletal arms.

Irina then pulled from him, demanding with gestures that he looked at her in the eyes.

Her _beau_ was the stubborn type, for she had to slap him hard in the arm to gather his attention again.

Whereas he attempted to gather her in his arms once more, she was having none of it, for she took a step back and repeated the gesture to look at her.

The other seemed frustrated, but did as asked.

And then, suddenly, they started conversing. With their hands.

Raul in truth had very little knowledge in Sign Language, and they were going full speed, each exchange punctuated by growls signaling how they felt: him first worried, then angry; her sad, then increasingly frustrated.

A third Glowing One, a female, stepped in the conversation, brushing Irina's cheek briefly with her fingers, signaling her fondness, then adding onto the frenetic gesticulating.

Raul was fascinated how the conversation, as far as he could tell, evolved into both females heatedly arguing with the tall male, as he apparently was having none of it but they were slowly corralling him, their much shorter stances growing pissed by the minute.

Two more females added in the discussion, siding with Irina and her friend, and then a timid male stepped in as well, playing the mediator part when Irina's valentine crossed both his arms in a hermetic gesture Raul found hilariously resembling with a _certain_ _chavo_ he knew.

As the argument continued, the only non-glowing ghoul present swept his eyes around, taking in the different shapes and bone wear of the whole group present. He was startled when he spotted the tiny silhouette of a child, holding a tamed giant rat pup between their fragile arms.

This was a community, a whole underground community of luminous necrotics. The rejected, the banished, hidden from a world mostly dominated by dangerous creatures and prejudiced humans.

And they were still sane. Perfectly so.

Somehow, after a while, the discussion went to a halt, the tall Glowing One still giving Raul the eye, but at the same nodding in understanding.

Then, someone brought him a rusted pan and a metallic pipe.

And then, Raul had to cover both his auditory cavities as the bashing the other made with his instruments echoed throughout the gargantuan structure. The sound repeating a pattern.

And so, in a matter of minutes, the majority of the community was making preparations.

Irina turned around and met Raul's eyes. She then pointed at his revolvers, making a gesture of taking off the safety mechanism from them.

Raul's rotten smile could have competed with a _vintage_ mailbox.

* * *

_Magister_ Arrius had allowed them to watch the slave Ranger woman fight with some of the strongest foot legionaries at the Fort.

Lupus was excited, having never seen a girl knock out guys twice her size with barely four well-thrown kicks and punches. He didn't know someone as small as she could be so powerful!

Some of the boys around him were mimicking her fighting stances, but he was completely taken.

She had killed a legionary on her first round with the explicit permission of her owner, the blonde _Decanus_ that reminded Lupus so much of Gabban, Master Inculta's Second-In-Command.

He had interacted only once with Gabban, but Lupus had found him quite nice and funny, having told him a joke about two Lakelurks swimming into a concrete wall and one turning to the other saying "Dam".

However, this _Decanus_ didn't look one bit nice to Lupus, his expression slightly feral and his stance tense once he had been the one engaging the slave woman in combat.

The wrestling had been, with a difference, the most long-winded since the round of fights had started.

It had been shocking watching a slave make her owner bleed as the two of them had kept throwing punches to the other, all the fighting keys the woman had previously used with her former opponents completely useless against the _Decanus_.

However, despite having both her eyes black and a split lip as a consequence of her Master's quick punches, the woman still managed to put up a move that surprised all of the present men and children.

For she took a step back when the _Decanus_ threw a blow, and then took him by surprise when she turned her evasive maneuver into a palm strike right into his face quickly followed by a leg sweep that, ultimately, rendered the man at her mercy all over the sandy ground.

A tense silence had ensued, many of the onlookers ready to grab the offending slave to punish her for having bested her Master when the _Decanus_, far from being angry, began to laugh.

"That's it!" – he had exclaimed as he had gotten up off the ground – "See? Rangers are not to be underestimated!" – he added, now turning to their public, wiping his bleeding nose with a hand – "Today you have learned how the NCR best of the best fights. _This…_" – he emphasized, pointing at the woman with his index finger – "… is what you should expect on the battlefield. Coming from men and women that might look like weaklings to you… when they could be the very last thing you'll ever see." – he finished, making a mute signal to his slave to follow, ending the improvised class for today.

Lupus was so awed that he didn't hear the command _Magister_ Arrius gave them to get back to the children's grounds. The woman and her owner passing right before him when the man stopped, turned his head and, out of a sudden, Lupus had his electric, inquisitive blue eyes on him.

"You, the boy." – he addressed, his tone firm and commanding – "Come here."

Lupus didn't react to the command immediately, unsure if it was truly meant for him in the first place.

"Come here, boy." – the _Decanus_ repeated.

The child approached the towering, hulking young man who was still eyeing him with inquisitive, cold eyes.

"Look at me when I speak to you."

Lupus raised his head almost instantaneously, knowing how meek and pathetic he must have looked to a superior, going with his head low like a dog. Master Inculta would be so disappointed with him.

However, instead of anger, he found confusion and then something vaguely akin to warmth when his eyes met with the _Decanus'._

"What's your name?" – the man asked, though this time his voice had lost a great deal of its harshness.

"Sir, _Numerus Novem,_ sir!" – he replied without hesitation, like a true legionary would.

However, he didn't expect the next words that came out the man's mouth.

"Not your temporary name. Your _true_ name."

Upon hearing that, Lupus panicked. Did he know? About his secret name? How was it possible?

Did he also know that he had given Master Inculta a hug? _Magister_ Arrius said that hugs and kisses were for little children and not for men. That a man should only hug and kiss his wife, and that he should do so in private. Showing that kind of affection for another legionary was improper and a _weakness_. Punishable by five lashes.

Lupus didn't want him or Master Inculta to get punished for hugging. The priestesses at the Temple in Flagstaff had always given them orphans lots of hugs and kisses… and he kind of missed it.

Once you turned out eight, you were deemed old enough to start training.

And, out of a sudden, all of your friends that you had been hugging since you were little, were now "off-limits".

Whatever that meant.

_"Numerus Novem."_ \- then, relief that came with the weight of _Magister_ Arrius' hard hands over his tiny shoulders, signaling the interrogation as officially over – "Appreciate you keeping watch of my disciple here, _Decanus_. However, I think I can take it from here."

Lupus wasn't sure, but he swore he detected a tense undertone on his instructor's voice.

The _Decanus_ did not deign the older man a reply, but instead bid Lupus _vale_.

"Until we meet again, boy." – he added as a farewell.

Whereas he was a superior and a man stronger than most, a man – quoting Master Inculta – he could learn from, for _"knowledge is power" …_ Lupus wasn't so sure he wanted to speak with him again.

* * *

Six wasn't really sure that her "cell" could be called so.

Between maintenance rooms and ample concrete shafts meant to serve in the pre-War as holding tanks for combined sewers, the Fiends had constructed a series of platforms, guard posts and individual rooms from scrap with old wooden planks, reused pipes, pressed junk, plastic panels, pieces of old pneumatics and the like, all sloppily connected and/or screwed with all manner of nails, duct tape and even staples.

She feared more the precarity of such structures than their inhabitants.

And Duke and his men were not something one took lightly if you valued your life.

They had separated her from the others, putting her inside a medium space where she had already deduced was someone's bedroom, for it had all the "commodities" one could get while living in the sewers: a bedroll with some actual straw pillows and a military blanket, discolored from use; an old cabinet no doubt tightly closed and full with stolen goods, a rusty trunk and some insignificant trifles all over a broken table.

Her first instinct upon finding herself alone had been to pick a small piece of a broken mirror that had been resting over said table, tucking it away inside her pants' waist.

They hadn't even bothered to chain her or to take her clothes off, only her Pip-Boy; so, she could put up a fight if she managed to get a single target alone and close enough.

The rest would be a matter of stealing a weapon and...

Her chain of thoughts was violently interrupted when the door of the room she was in was opened to reveal the armored silhouette of Duke.

And he had her Pip-Boy.

"Well, Lolita Khan, you and I have gotta finally some quality time."

He closed the door behind him. Six could hear muffled laughter outside.

The fact that he still was in full metal armor minus the helmet would pose a problem, as the raider leader was considerably taller than her.

And she wanted her Pip-Boy back.

"Been thinking…" – he continued, passing the unstrapped device from one hand to the other – "What the fuck is a wisp of a kid like you doing in the Khans, anyway? They ain't famous for making it easy to their rookies." – and then, he started pacing around her, like a vulture smelling blood – "You don't look to me like you could resist much abuse, but maybe ol' Duke is wrong, eh?"

That gave her an idea.

"Try me." – she said as defiant as possible whilst, deep inside her mind, she was screaming, kicking and crying like the little girl she sometimes she felt she still was. If she could get a hold on her Pip-Boy… – "You might find my _endurance_ quite surprising." – she forced herself to vomit, word by word, adding a suggestive cadence she wasn't feeling in the slightest – "Unless you are all bark and no bite, Duke."

The man paused his circling, sizing her from head to toe. His nose still swollen and slightly crooked due to _Zorro's_ punch. Fiends had literally next to no medical knowledge if the botched job they had done to it putting on a piece of duct tape and clogging the bleeding with a dirty piece of cloth was of any measure to go by.

"Lil' manipulative bitch, ain'cha?" – the man replied, though his bloodshot eyes told another entirely different story. The pig was interested, but he still got two neurons to put up a tough act – "Wonder if that's gotten you so far double-crossing your folk all fine and dandy while sucking Legion cock."

The transformation her face must have shown was cue enough for the man starting to laugh.

"Didn't think I wouldn't put one and one together?" – he asked, clearly pleased to have his suspicions confirmed – "Your boyfriend. Bit mouthy for his own good, eh? After that display, I had to check it for myself." – he added, enjoying every second of his clearly essayed explanation – "Guess stripping down a Legion soldier ain't that easy when they're conscious. You would know, since you're a Legion whore." - he added sardonically – "Was looking for some tribal tattoo or some shit like that, but found something better. Nastiest thing ever, the marks on his back. Son of a bitch must be tough as shit to survive something like that. Bet he fucks as hard as a rabid bighorner bull, huh?"

"What have you done to him?" – she found herself asking, the threat behind her words unmistakable.

She wanted her Pip-Boy back. And she wanted _Zorro_ back as well.

"Now I'm talking business, ain't I, Lola?" – Duke replied, savoring the moment – "Tell you what: we're still interested in ally ourselves with the Legion… with conditions."

"Tell that to the Legion guy you've just _kicked_ and _stripped_." – she hissed, willing her eyes not to remain on her Pip-Boy for too long.

She wanted it back so badly!

"And _there's_ where you come in, Lola." – Duke said, too overconfident for his own good as he got closer to her – "I've noticed you two wear these." – the Pip-Boy's screen was now a few inches from her nose as he held it with a single hand – "I'm familiar with them, since we got a handful from Vault 3." – she shuddered, thinking of the walls filled with blood and explicit graffiti she saw the first time she got inside the occupied Vault to deliver the first batch of chems to Motor-Runner – "This thing. It's blocked." – he sentenced – "Bet there's tons of Legion intel inside it, just what I need to negotiate with your Cesar. I just need the password." – and then, his ugly face replaced the device's screen – "We can do this the easy way… or the hard way, Lola. With my dick in your ass while my men stick theirs on your boyfriend's in turns as the rest of your friends watch. Your pick. One chance."

She couldn’t believe that, having planned this so thoroughly, the stupid junkie could be so unbelievably RETARDED.

But she didn't tell him otherwise.

"You cannot unlock it without me." – she told him, willing once more her eyes and body language not seem too eager to betray her attachment on the electronic device. The less they knew, the better – "I have installed a software that deals with my voice patterns."

"Then unlock it and change the settings." – Duke replied.

She recalled Burke then, how easily would he have played this poor imbecile to his convenience.

"Do we really have to do this?" – the correct intonation, the correct amount of defeatism, a slight touch of resignation – "The Legion…"

"The Legion can suck me dry!" – Duke exploded – "Just the very fucking same you will if you try to fuck with me again!"

Allow the other to interrupt you, let their control slip from their very hands.

"Alright, alright…" – resignation, defeatism, a momentary olive branch – "I can unlock it, but you'll have to wear it."

Bloodshot eyes squinted.

"Why is that?"

"Because the device reads your vital signs. If it reads mine, it automatically would assume its me. If you want to switch ownership, the device must recognize your vitals in order to update data and react to your touch and vocal orders."

It had been too easy.

"Alright." – Duke conceded, strapping the gauntlet around his left forearm – "Now what?"

"I'm gonna give it an order and it should unlock the interface." – she explained. Calm, collected and cold. The way Burke liked it the most - "Once you have the device working, wait for the system to load your characteristics and then we can go to the settings."

She could tell that the man understood only very little of what she had told him if his face was of any clue, but it didn't matter.

"Okay…" – he nodded – "Give it the order."

Too easy.

"Very well." – she acquiesced, taking a step back – "Yes Man… fry him."

The amount of voltage that stemmed from the device right into the Fiend leader's system was so great that not a single sound escaped the man's lips as he dropped on the concrete floor, where she left him contorting - nose and ears bleeding, eyes white and tongue-biting - allowing her time enough to calmly gather her hidden weapon and sink it right into his gullet.

Too damn easy.

Once the bastard stopped moving, she waited for Yes Man to give her green lights to pick back her device. She also took the small key with a chain rounding the corpse's neck.

She didn't feel complete again until the Pip-Boy was strapped back on her left forearm.

The screen loaded several maps without further command on her part, hinting for a hidden line of interconnected ventilation tunnels, an advance interface she didn't recall the device had installed on its inner memory even highlighting the best path for her to escape.

Yes Man had been busy.

She localized the opening grill on a higher level.

Before she used the broken table to bar the only door in the room, she used the small key on the old cabinet.

_Bingo. _– she thought once her eyes lied upon its contents.

Then, the show began.

* * *

He found the Black Market.

Or what was left of it anyway. Everything had been destroyed and conscientiously looted.

It would have fooled a less seasoned observer into believing this has been nothing but a common raid.

However, besides the way his Pip-Boy had started beeping, detecting slight remnants of radiation permeating the ample space, the staging was unmistakable: 10mm ammunition mixed up with several more gun shells and plasma goo.

And then, the shooting methodology on the corpses that got the 10mm holes.

He would recognize the work of a Sleeper anywhere.

He had hunted down his good share of those… along with their Captain.

When the two of them had combed the whole DC District in search of running targets.

Rarely alone, those kids always surrounded themselves with more people, usually gullible individuals ready to die for them. He recalled a particularly nasty incident, with demented Children of the Atom worshipping a glowing obelisk at the Dunwich offices: they had killed the raiders and ghouls that had been infesting the building and then erected the Sleeper as their new preacher.

He had never seen a fourteen-year-old as deranged as that one, commanding dozens of zealots as if they were pawns and he was simply amusing himself by playing a sick variant of the chess game with them, sacrificing them without even batting a lash.

That one had stood more bullets than a human being had the right to before going down.

Such kind of monsters Vault-Tec would be so proud of. Such kind of monsters the Wasteland didn't need.

The girl had been different, though. Humanity still present in her eyes despite the trauma.

But her mind was a Sleeper mind.

They had been able to catch them with very little information on their hands just because she had known how to track them down.

Both had done it out of a sense of honor and respect for their disgraced comrades, still betrayed human beings despite everything… but the evil bastard had been the one giving them a longer leash to do so, as his water trade business had been threatened by those crazed child soldiers who had wanted revenge for having been sold to Eulogy Jones.

The girl had taken care of the slaver boss as well.

He had seen her doing her executions, naming her target and listing off all of their crimes. Acting in the name of the Old America.

Jones had wet himself before receiving the _coup de grace_.

The girl had been broken beyond repair, but her trickery and violence had escalated down to a point that even the evil bastard had started to have his doubts.

He had wanted to control her and she had begun to revolt. It had been bound to happen sooner or later.

This hunt was meant as a lesson, a reprimand for her disobedience.

The sick bastard had wanted for her to experience what she had done to her comrades. To make her feel like prey, to show her who was the real boss there.

The son of a bitch was psychological as fuck, the only advantage he counted with anyway.

For being so fucking twisted and intelligent, the idiot still didn't get that the girl wasn't his pet anymore.

Kids grow up and, up to some point, they stop fearing the Boogeyman.

And so, when the Boogeyman feels his authority challenged, he evolves into something worse.

Something even adults fear.

Like General Chase.

The piles of human corpses he found along further tunnels did nothing to hush his fears.

Could she have been gone mad? Like the others?

He had to press on before she turned the cards against the NCR.

Before she turned out a faction of her own.

Before she loses her humanity and become what Vault-Tec had planned for her in the first place.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: got this written like EONS ago, but so floppy and disjointed that had taken too long to get it in one piece AND legible enough. Plus, I got the flu (the regular one), so my head hurts like a bitch.
> 
> Let's see... tons of Lore stuff for your pretty head start hurting like mine, eh? Raul's part was a mess, I know, and I've gotten Charon's scene even messier. Don't feel like changing much now, but I might revisit this chapter in the future (no promises, though). Anything you see unrelated and/or incoherent, just let me know and THAT, I will revisit.
> 
> Already working on the next. Still undecided if releasing Burke's part or not as it deals with F3 Main Plotline events. We'll see.
> 
> Cheers!


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